This poem came out of the May 2012 Crowdfunding Creative Jam. It was inspired by a prompt from clare_dragonfly. It has been sponsored by Anthony & Shirley Barrette. This poem belongs to the series The Bat Vampires, which I need to add to the Serial Poetry page.
The night is bitter cold, the sidewalks nearly deserted,
but she is hunting and does not heed the snow.
The grey crepe of cloud tears open
to show a glimpse of black silk sky
filled with stars like the heads of silver pins.
She is not beautiful as humans count beauty:
her sable hair and sloe-eyed grace look fair enough,
but the tip of her nose turns up like a queer leaf
and sensitive pits frame her mouth and cheeks
like strange dimples.
On such a frigid night, every breathing thing
pulls at her as a flame draws a moth.
She has a sweet fang for artists,
for anyone with a creative soul --
painters and playwrights and performers --
whose muse-mulled blood sates the hunger in her.
She finds a poet in the park.
He is sitting beside the frozen fountain
sketching it into his notebook with a pen
that he must lick and lick to keep the ink from freezing,
a graceful illustration below the stately sonnet
enscribed at the top of the page.
He has gone out without a hat or scarf,
his coat hanging carelessly open,
life's heat spilling brilliantly across the icy darkness.
The sound of his breathing is deep and even,
almost drowsy, his heartbeat
the soft adagio of a single drum.
She touches him gently,
furling her power around him
like warm velveteen wings
as her fingers catch in his black curls
and tilt his head to the side.
"Let me taste you," she murmurs,
"and I will give you inspiration
running over like a fountain in spring rain."
"Please," he whispers
into the satin curtains of her hair,
his body hot and pliant in her careful grasp.
She strokes her mouth over his fragrant skin,
her dimples reading the heat as it rises from him
to show where the blood runs nearest the surface.
Her incisors are sharp and bright as a shark's,
white triangles flashing against her garnet lips.
She nicks his smooth throat and laps the trickling blood.
The taste reminds her of the pastries
that she loved in her human days,
soft warm bread rich in spices
and dripping with sweet icing.
Her saliva keeps the blood flowing,
soothes the sting of the bite,
and brings him a mellow growing pleasure.
His mind strokes against hers,
deliciously original, new ideas
already sparking in him from her touch.
She swallows the flavor of his life,
his memories, his lovely verses
like a symphony of admiration for the wide world.
She finishes feeding
and wraps his naked throat
in the dove-grey cashmere of her scarf.
Then she carries him to his home,
familiar now as her own,
tucking him tenderly into his bed.
She presses a scarlet kiss into his sketchbook
and leaves it open beneath the languid sprawl of his hand.
When she returns to her colony,
she shares with the other vampires
the fruits of her hunt, passing the sweet blood
from mouth to mouth with passionate kisses
as they lick from her the memory
of the poet and his honeyed words.
She keeps the last of it for herself,
something to savor like a hard candy
through the short flare of the winter day.