Mother was a vampire,
all shriek and steely bloodstained teeth,
I dreamed of plunging a dagger through
whatever served as her heart, blue with cold,
I dreamt of saving the younger children;
the middle brother, trapped in the stiff
boney cage of his terror,

like Hansel in the witch's house;
my sister, shooting herself with sharp
quick bullets of laughter,
and littlest brother, too new and wet
to unfold
the wings of his trust.

Father was a werewolf,
he returned from his dark cave
at the sandpaper factory,
and sat, transfixed, by the glowing
neon moon of the television set,
while we watched his hair grow,
and his voice turn into a deep
and strident, gloating growl.

We knew we must have been stolen
from the love that was rightfully ours,
some mistake must have been made,
God looking the other way,
while we were lost, misplaced somehow,
ending up in the cradle of monsters.

I read this poem over and over, captivated by its sharp, devastating metaphors. This is what I look for in the hundreds of submissions we receive: writing that renders even a familiar subject astonishing.
— D. W.