Q. Why did God make you? A. God made me to know him, love him, and serve him in this world. — Baltimore Catechism I. Frankensteinian Irony, they probably don’t know, tastes like flat beer. Of course, they fear me, hands the size of feet with fingers, seams and stitches where my heartline should be. The color of resurrected skin reminds them of winter rain. But I have eyes which have seen the other side of death, and I would tell them that they need only to be kind. Not just to me But there is still anger over the stolen fire, so I am made their compensation. But I laugh from the funeral pyre. II. Lycanthropic Moons do more than make tides ebb or reflect the absent suns of lovers. And some sounds aren’t perceived in night-silenced woods and moors. The damned itching of hair on my cheeks naturally makes blood more palatable. But I have conversed with astute gypsies who live on the run enough to know eternal movement is the only place of deposit for the modern soul. Instead, I will let them impale me on the spokes of a hateful pentagram, and become the wheel They roll toward their terrible churches. III. Draculesque I, pessimistic, make my entrances into second-story bedrooms where young girls, blonde as clouds, sleep in the face of my powerful will. And all I would want is a kiss. I gather in batwings, see her eyes expanding into solar systems of fear just before I silence her scream with a stare. I sit on the edge of a blue-blanketed bed in the hopeless light of a desklamp which enlivens the shadows until I, too, am frightened, ready to leave lest I be discovered, fangs, hypnosis, and all. No love again tonight, and the sun is on its way. A stake in the heart would be merely redundant.