The chupacabra doesn’t merely crave
our ungulates, our sanity, our dreams,
but questions what the beast within us needs.

Your goat would make a toothsome delicacy
for such a horrid animal whose wont
is preying on the animals we want
to milk or eat. The wind is moving air,
the air flutters the leaves, the leaves are swirling
in frenzied eddies, as a mega-wave 
of frightened tufted titmice vanishes
beyond the red horizon. It’s arrived
circling the chicken coop to misbehave.  
The chupacabra doesn’t merely crave

our souls like infamous Old Scratch, but hungers,
lusts for every sun and galaxy.
Greedy is not the word. No bird is singing.
No dog is barking. No one’s stepping out
into the world for fear of the chupacabra.
No bigger than a wolverine, it beams
while leaping at us, grinning at our pain,
mocking our squeals and yelps with its own crowing—
a cackling capping our most piercing screams.
Our ungulates, our sanity, our dreams

go topsy-turvy when the monster’s near.
Oftentimes the beast itself is spooked,
and when it spooks it spews sulphuric funk
from skin like hickory bark, while rows of spines
as sharp as blackberry brambles guard its back.
It doesn’t lack for gall, though, as it feeds 
by lancing the throats of luckless goats. Yet don’t
we feed upon the monster’s charm in turn?
“Don’t hate me for what I can’t help,” it pleads,
“but question what the beast within you needs.”