by Kathleen Hellen

where is the moon

predicting things I took for granted. Opposites
the sliver and the star that slipped into the quiet of the kitchen
The rain changing

to something hard, unrelenting. Ice-sirens
The slow, slipped slew

of margins, indistinguishable—deep
in the bruit, the falling

snow. The way the world might end
the great beasts
disappearing into fable

your breath against my neck

I say I loved your hands
like paws

towing runners through the cold in avalanche
I loved your face

pelted like an animal’s
I’d take you like that even now—snow driven

after you, there is no one








Kathleen Hellen is the author of the award-winning collection Umberto’s Night and two chapbooks, The Girl Who Loved Mothra and Pentimento. Nominated for the Pushcart and Best of the Net, and featured on Poetry Daily, her poems have won prizes from the H.O.W. Journal and Washington Square Review.


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