Nazis at home
They’ve been marching
in their skin’s pale uniforms,
gleaming like boot black
in the torchlight.
At home, they plop
in their easy chairs,
foot sore and weary
and untie their bitter laces
soon they’ll hold their cheek
against the dark, not waiting
for kisses, but for the warm breath
that tells them there’s life
because their fear
winds around their
sleeping children
heavy as black lung
and they cannot hear
the heart beat
of their young
above their own
or distinguish them
from the tender camouflage
of shadow in the black -skinned
arms of night.
annaquon 