Snowflakes cry on the rooftops as I dial 911
and sirens sing the blues on Jefferson St.
while my daughter would not leave my hip.
3:45 a.m. the skeleton that was her father bangs
on the door vile, like a winter storm, wild words
flow out of his mouth breaking my courage
and almost the door.
Snowflakes that graze the top of crow’s heads
perch on telephone wires while old Mary Grace
is thrown off her porch and lay on the cement
the side of her face cracked like a porcelain doll.
Snowflakes listen as my neighbor screams
and blood drips from her mouth making red
snow angels on the ground.
Snowflakes dance at my window as I entertain
a male guest. “Maybe you’ve heard about this,”
he said. “I did not.” I reply. “It was a summer
years ago, two buddies and I. An old lady down
the street.” He points his hand lean, beautiful,
and dark as a Hershey Kiss.
“We were high on drugs. They raped and killed her.
One stuck a broom up her snatch. I didn’t do a thing.”
he said. “But took her money and some old coins.”
He didn’t do a thing, I thought, as his tongue slips into
my mouth while snowflakes dance at my window.
Eileen Patterson lives in in Cudahy, Wisconsin. Along with fellow poets she has read her poetry at the local library. She enloys long walks and reading. Her work has appeared in Underwood, Bombfire, Medusa’s Kitchen and Darkwinter.