by Jesi V. Taylor

outside of my window like blackened beetles
of onyx and luster and twenty thousand eyes
— they’re spies, Russian or Red
                                            they march with steel
toed boots and meter long rifles to off with my head
and toss it down a rabid hole of stench and death
                                a coffin chasm 
they lined us in a row bones pointed in salute
tombstone teeth protruding from blue cut lips
they’ll steal the tombstone teeth shining gold
from smoking flesh of her mother and theirs
and in some hell penned arithmetic
call it the final solution.