Little darkness, little death’s head wing,
what were you like before you came here?

Didn’t the flap of your wings start the twister in Chicago?
Your mothman ancestor lived among us for many years.
We made movies about him. On late-night talk shows,
we interviewed him about how he survived two months
away from the laboratory where there was artificial
atmosphere and frozen food, the essentials of a decent life.
All this time we thought we understood the motivations
of creatures like you. But when we caught you shedding
off your chrysalis to reveal the androgynous humanoid
underneath, we discovered how much we hated your
mutated form, hated your ugliness and what it represented.
We cast the first stone. We hunted you to extinction.
There would never be any room for you in this world.
Only in our legends we would allow you to dwell.
Like the mermaid whose tail we used for kindling.
Like the wolfman we dried out as a scarecrow.
Like the minotaur we castrated in the bullfight.