I had a beautiful Frankenstein once
I made from the fragments, fused with glue,
and I gave to him the sad complexion
of acetylene and angels and postcards
of distant earth. He was my other father,
my little man of science at odds with death,
born of it and thus, like me, its orphan.
But our conversations, as I got old, got
older, as graves are, before they turn
more boring and alone. What can I say.
I set Frankenstein on fire. And if I woke
to hear his cry, I knew. It was my own.
I knew a dream must die to be at last
that dream. That orphan of the child I was.
