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.