Carolynn Staib: Boogyman

The monster in my closet made a mini mortuary

stuffed me like a doll, stained a porcelain face

snapped naughty Polaroids inside his dreary diorama

rouge upon my cheeks, body bandaged up in lace

Sly eyes beneath the bed, wide grin of grimy teeth

offerings from shriveled hands to justify the crime

Paddle in a pool of pretty things for pretty girls

pencils, pearls and panties, polish up for next time.

Goblins are as goblins do.

Incubi and devils, too.

Try to pick one from a crowd,

They all look just like you.

All monsters curse the reaper, my rescuer and teacher,

who snapped my strings and sang that I am no man's marionette.

Every toy loses flavor when it grows too old for favor

or becomes a suffragette.

It's your turn, boogyman, to catch the boomerang

and now my hooded friend is waiting just outside your door.

He'll rouge your lips and fill your veins, fit you in a pretty box,

then hold my hand and watch you sink beneath the floor

Carolynn Staib