“Poetry is truth in its Sunday clothes.”
“The Vampire’s Gift”
I expected bats, fangs,
the usual openmouthed coffin.
Instead he woos me with poetry of a sort:
“Dreams are baggy shadows
bursting their skins each dawn
and colorsplashing the mornings”
Why I fall for this, I don’t know,
But we do things in bed I don’t quite remember.
And before he leaves,
he gives me a diamond
with a prominent spot of blood
“We fertilized it, ” he explains.
I sleep fitfully,
and dream that when he caresses my face,
it comes off in his hands.
At dawn, when I awake, the diamond is gone.
But there’s a child now
I must feed whatever way I can.