Poetry Friday: Who’s Afraid?

Who’s Afraid?

I met him as a child while reading;
he towered over me, three times my height.
Awake or asleep, I can still see
his long hairy legs,
his yellowed fangs and glinting claws.

His crime against me was one of consumption;
but all could have been forgiven, had he not
disguised himself most heinously
as my grandmother.
Is nothing sacred?

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