by John Grey
The vampire is aware of every virgin
tucked away in cottage beds,
or in rooms above the tavern,
fifty, at least, in the village
as if they were items on a menu,
fulsome, buxom, fair-haired and blue-eyed,
each dreaming a hopeful story
like the reading and rereading of a fairy tale,
a tale that can’t survive
the lure of an open window
to the messenger of death flying by.
It’s an old Transylvanian fallacy
that nighttime’s as safe as daylight
with a cross between breasts,
garlic flowers hung from walls.
But each is an Ariadne’s thread
through the maze of darkness,
a sign that here is something precious,
a damsel worthy of protection.
But it’s an unfinished circle,
an incomplete composition,
an aura ripe for penetration.
A man of centuries
knows the lay of the land of dreams,
the grammar of soft breathing,
the rituals of fear.
Fresh blood runs like a stream in spring
and his is the perfect passion for it.
John Grey is an Australian
poet, U.S. resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Stand,
Poetry Salzburg Review, and Hollins Critic. Latest books, Covert,
Memory Outside the Head, and Guest of Myself are available
through Amazon. Work upcoming in
and International Poetry Review.
Wayne F. Burke's drawings have appeared in a number of
publications, in print and online, including FLARE, Portland Review (ME).
Red Savina, Duane's Poe Tree, Driftwood Magazine, Grey Sparrow,
The Octopus Review, About Place Journal, and elsewhere. He lives in the central
Vermont area (USA).