Raspberries are sticky like this, like
the mess a dog makes after a shotgun
has kissed his head and sneezed. So
it rolls in the mess; it, this nightmare,
this killer of children, this mauler, this
beast.
How stained is that fur, from the bed,
the hideout, the burrow of little bodies,
mostly missing extremities. Who knew
it would hide in an over-large log, near
an outcropping of rocks, where young
people play?
*** Fault the fat one with the freckles for not running scared at its hairs, bristle as they do, like a thousand hard needles. Do you not heed the old warnings of the forest? Boy, do you not feel the press of fear? Even the men now know not to hunt by that creek. Better to wait for the one year- wake. Better to pray it strays from our town to the orphanage on the outskirts; they have no parents to dismay by dying.
A note: This is the only poem of the month that is not new. I wrote this about 15 years ago, but it's one of my favorites, and I thought it would be a significantly creepy poem to end the month with.
Happy Halloween!!!