A Word From the Fat Lady

    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