KATE FINLEY
EU
In bloodstained plazas
still bearing romantic
names, they sit.
Smooth and mustachioed,
groomed and tight,
like flamenco dancers,
they snuffle about their
former empires and lost serfs,
who now glean the earth
for vacancies.
In poisoned sunlight, they
drink to their aged past,
plastic peeling away
centuries of discarded
history.
Halloween
We cut out gaping ho les in gourds
and peep into cavities
where the soft eyes of our
parents used to be.
Owls and cats know what's what.
Under a large open moon
they watch for signs
as we walk on toward
the fire that consumes.
There will be restitution,
a price to pay, maybe
not tomorrow, but soon.
When boys on the cusp,
hooded and masked,
will stand on the doorstep
