Make Haste to Deliver Me

By Kim Suttell

When will we die was always the story

we told in wolf-shaped smoke, in ghouls woven

out of fanged footsteps. From troubadours to

YouTube our garrotters clop endlessly

through gutters, hissing puddles and shadows,

like flaps of bat. Bludgeoners are as close

as neighbors, we know them so well. Our shield

is being unprotected. Our troubles

are the place where everyone is welcome.


Kim Suttell never complains about cold weather.  Read her poems in Right Hand PointingPenny Ante FeudGeistThe Cortland Review, and other journals handily compiled for you at

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