There is a part of me
that scuttles across the sea floor,
that stares up scowling
at rays of sunlight
filtering down to dapple the sand.
It hides under rocks, shriveled
and twisting. Monster
would be too grand a name:
bottom feeder, scum sucker,
carrion eater – it lives
on all manner of offal,
it cannot be trusted.
But sometimes at night,
its scratches and howls
at the bedroom door
are so insistent, I have no choice
but to let it in. Come, little heart,
I say, rest here a while,
and I lift it onto the bed
where it crawls beneath the covers
to huddle against me, slimy
and hot and beating.