Seeing the monster for the first time is the most frightening experience,
so the eyewitness says. It changes everything you’ve been told.
__________
I remember being too drunk to move, but not too drunk
to be aroused. I remember a woman I thought was a friend
sucking then mounting. I remember
saying no and whimpering stop.
__________
I’ve heard the beast is a man,
a giant apish thing with thick stinking fur.
He hides in forest and swamp,
on mountain, under shadow.
__________
It took a long time to stop drinking.
It took a long time
to wean off of euphoria,
that fuzzy feeling of forgetfulness.
__________
The second time you see the monster, it just stands there
staring at you, trying to remember
if it was you that night,
if it was you who shared the terror of a chance meeting.
__________
I told my friends, but they wouldn’t believe me.
Things like this don’t happen to a man.
Men are not vulnerable to anyone or anything.
To which I say to hell with you.
To which I’ve spent years standing in the shower
with only the water touching me.
__________
And quicker than the seeing is the disappearing.
The monster shifts into fog, behind a tree,
into the embrace of undergrowth, briars and brambles and barbs.
It leaves behind a footprint, something larger than would ever seem
possible, something you save as a plaster cast and take with you
as evidence.