Boris Karloff Man-Crush

*a special poem for Halloween

She sneers when she
talks about the rubber
Frankenstein’s Monster
I keep on the shelf next to
pictures of our trip
to Cancun.

Once, I caught her
with a plastic grocery bag
loaded and heavy with
Fangoria
Famous Monsters
and one old Aurora catalog
I rescued from Grandpa’s trash bin
when I was eight.

Ashes to ashes,
pulp to pulp, she said.

No, I said.

Not Boris Karloff.

Doesn’t she understand
this is Karloff?
The Karloff
who garnered enough fame under
gallons of spirit gum to simply
be known as one word.

The Creature:
Karloff.

Doesn’t she understand
this is about growing up with
silver-screen television late night horror show
blood thudding through my veins?

No I will not throw out
the molded plastic drinking glasses
or the bobble-head
or the fired-clay bust from ninth grade art.

Her eyes roll,
she hands me the bag,
and I stash my treasure
under the tall, Lucite-framed
original lobby card
announcing The Monster Demands a Mate,
hanging from the basement wall
of my shrine.

Doesn’t she know?
Boris Karloff is only a man-crush after all,
and not a threat?
Not much of one,
anyway.