The name seems unfitting.
Perhaps it's the catlike eyes
that threaten to penetrate my mind,
to see my cowering inner self,
to see the power they hold over me.

Standing guard on the burnt red wood,
she dares me to come closer,
a faint smile on her lips,
from which I expect to hear a hiss.
But all that comes is silence.

She's from another time and place,
one that smells of gunpowder and whiskey,
that's tinted as though by teabags,
colorless
except for the ranging tones of brown and gray
interrupted by the single scarlet feather
that sits atop her head.

She stalks all who cross her,
piercing them with her narrowed slits.
Nefarious, scornful, she's forever watching.
Even after she's returned through her batwing portal
to her smoky, outlaw-ridden world,
she haunts me.