Sparks are her favorite. See them as she skates
across the street, through your neighborhood,
baseball bat dragging and smile gliding,
her eyes lock from mailbox to doghouse
to front door closing as she closes in.
It’s a red moon tonight. An orange cat
lays splattered in the foyer. ‘Slip off the blades’
she thinks, choosing sock feet for this front.
she tiptoes them over blood spots; the eyes
have been taken from the tabby. Speckles dot
carpeted stairs, so she climbs them and wills
herself not to creak. It’s a new house. Score.
Found in what was probably a little daughters
room–it’s all pink and ponies, even in low
candlelight–she spots them chanting in murmur:
three robed guys. One holds cat eyes aloft, another
stoops with dagger over a poor adolescent, most likely
virgin. The clock hits 12. ‘Oh, this hour,’ she thinks
and lifts up her bat. And gets to work.