by Peleg Held
Run your needles through, Maria.
Open the holes in the uniform of State Security.
Blessed be the easel of your frame, the canvas
of your skin exposed to pigments of vulgarity.
The taste of power changes slowly in its madness.
Stalin still shows little care for poetry
that bares its teeth to dominance.
Clean shaven, five blades deep,
his finger grubs grow thin and learn dexterity
from an acquiescent smile upturned in ritual purity.
Nadezdha, in the place of Joseph,
do you dream of hope and fury
while the catcalls waller on?
Hooligans. You shame them all
Peleg Held lives in Portland, Maine with his partner and his dog Emitt. There is also the semi-feral cat, Smudge. And a kid or two. He writes poetry, does woodworking and lately, dreams of the summer.
