The vigilantes need them badly,
trophies cut at the neck,
stuffed exhibits, eyes stuck
in the present by men
in camouflage and heavy boots,
to clear from rat’s nests
in favela storefronts
They need the sound of the blast,
the surprised leap children make
during midnight ambushes in grungy alleys,
need to know their trigger fingers
can become metaphysical
in the name of God
They need to creep close to the smell
of dirt and blood, inhale the fear
given off by small animals on the run,
stalk them through shattered glass,
strip, beat and chain them to lamp posts
in the squares, guilty or not guilty,
send them, children of Cain,
straight to hell
