Strange, isn’t it, that I write a love poem,
And all I envision is him?
There he crouches outside the peasant’s shack,
Listening to the girl read to her blind father.
He learned how to speak and
The meaning of words that way.
At night he chops the wood for the family,
Without their knowledge of this hideous Samaritan.
The tender monster pushes away a branch,
Touches a leaf, and hides away all day.
Quietly, different monstrosities.
What I consider:
Your hair that wavers night
Around your neck and cinnamon eyes.
The monster, though, learned with reason,
Then cherished the family from afar.
Instead of reason,
I think about rings:
wed ding ring around the caller tree ring around the rosy red herrings three ring Sir cuss church bells ring leaders necks rung
Which one are you?
The monster, never fickle, full of passion,
Listened and learned,
Committed to understanding.
I never understood, and instead of Pygmalion,
I dream of Frankenstein’s monster.