Monsters are motherless children.
Oh, they have fathers, right enough –-
The Wolfman and Dracula with their penetrating teeth,
Dr. Frankenstein with his shining implements of science –-
But there are no mothers in these old stories.
No warm milk. No lullabies. No night-light.
No one’s hand to hold when it hurts.
No one to come with a flannel blanket
When the nightmares wake,
Because these nightmares are for real.
No memories -– none at all –- of being loved.
Is it any wonder, then, that we call them monsters,
When they do not share the common ground
That makes us human?