A Word From The Fat Lady
It isn't how we look up close
so much as in dreams.
Our giant is not so tall,
our lizard boy merely flaunts
crusty skin - not his fault
they keep him in a crate
and bathe him maybe once a week.
When folks scream or clutch their hair
and poke at us and glare and speak
of how we slithered up from Hell,
it is themselves they see:
the preacher with the farmer's girls
(his bulging eyes, their chicken legs)
or the mother lurching towards the sink,
a baby quivering in her gnarled
hands. Horror is the company
you keep when shades are drawn.
Evil does not reside in cages.