That Nameless Thing

under the red crescent moon like a bloody smile,
that thing- that weredog crouches. do not
journey after dark! he is a friend only to
righteous theives and saintly beggars.
stonyfaced gargoyle, depicted on the flag
with a bright red phallus, terrible
protector, claw-footed guardian. does
not cling to a man-made weapon. he is there,
in the bushes- behind the garbage cans,
just beyond the glow of the porch light,
just outside the halo of the streetlamp.
he is there under your bed when you are
kept awake by guilt or angry denial,
pulling you down into a fitful sleep with
that echoing growl, those mornings you wake
up tasting blood but there is none. it is
a fresh kill. no mercy, no pity, no peace
until the blood cools. Justice untethered,
on the hunt. if you are marked, he will
find you. there is nowhere to run-
he has eyes everywhere. and anyway-
your breath stinks of lies. He could
track you for miles. if you get away,
it is only because he let you.
he will make you wait. he could
wait a hundred lifetimes.
older than good or evil, sprung
like a demon from the deepest wells of
human pain and outrage. when you have
felt it- when you have felt that
boundless wrath trapped inside you, and it
has nowhere else to go- you have felt him.
the blind guardian, with eyes that only stare-
the monster you know is really there, that
cauldron of boiling pitch, that lake of fire;
flint-edged, hot breath, both more and
less than human- nameless creature
that comes for you in the darkness-
the memory of that part of us which is
still, and will always be
animal.