rid this house of mirrors
— with a line from Dracula
What fans the fictions
along this muck and rusted river, this junk-
yard with its flattened Fords, this craggy carapace
of slag and corrugated scrap that galvanized my rage?
Growing up, I whipped the long forsythia, disabling
pop-up yellow cups and dogged dandelion, beheading
pods that oozed like milky men. I wheeled the chicory
that coffee-d my revenge. I swore like Heathcliff
that I’d leave these barren dreams, the fate they said was
writ in wind the weather trees—signed myself part heroine
part victim. I nickeled every penny, every dime a habit.
No subtraction in this master plan. No allowance. This
holding on to things the master-slave exactly. This scarcity
the engine. A thirst relentless, like clouds that swell without
the silver lining, like dark surrounding. I practiced something
winged, something hanging by its claws and breaking skin,
something reaching through the branches of despair like Nosferatu’s
fingers.There are far worse things…than being dead.
along this muck and rusted river, this junk-
yard with its flattened Fords, this craggy carapace
of slag and corrugated scrap that galvanized my rage?
Growing up, I whipped the long forsythia, disabling
pop-up yellow cups and dogged dandelion, beheading
pods that oozed like milky men. I wheeled the chicory
that coffee-d my revenge. I swore like Heathcliff
that I’d leave these barren dreams, the fate they said was
writ in wind the weather trees—signed myself part heroine
part victim. I nickeled every penny, every dime a habit.
No subtraction in this master plan. No allowance. This
holding on to things the master-slave exactly. This scarcity
the engine. A thirst relentless, like clouds that swell without
the silver lining, like dark surrounding. I practiced something
winged, something hanging by its claws and breaking skin,
something reaching through the branches of despair like Nosferatu’s
fingers.There are far worse things…than being dead.
Kathleen Hellen is the author of two chapbooks and two books of poetry, most recently The Only Country Was the Color of My Skin. Honors include prizes from the H.O.W. Journal, Washington Square Review, and Washington Writers’ Publishing House for her prize-winning collection Umberto’s Night. Her work has been featured on Poetry Daily and Verse Daily.
Art: by Pawel Czerwinski on Unsplash