by Kathleen Hellen

they’ll have beer. eddie’d said. someone playing something achy-breaky. words she’d never heard. paw-paw. ramps. what had he left out?(one of the electricians?). so you’re like lois lane? he said. she spilled her beer.weed kicking in. all she did was cover b&e’s. bars on water street. if eddie told him anything. weekends in pittsburgh. lots of guys wear pink. she felt strange. the sun with teeth. trees closing in. laughter from the tent a thousand miles away. or so it seemed. he passed another joint rolled up like a cigar. so you’re like eddie’s girl? he winced.

Kathleen Hellen is the recipient of prizes from the H.O.W. Journal and Washington Square Review. Her debut collection Umberto’s Night won the poetry prize from Washington Writers’ Publishing House. Featured on Poetry Daily and Verse Daily, Hellen’s work has been nominated for Best of the Net, the Pushcart and Best American Short Stories. She is the author of The Only Country Was the Color of My Skin, Meet Me at the Bottom, and two chapbooks.