She Comes at Night

by Joel Bjorling
(Gilson, IL)

She comes at night;
I've never seen her face,
But there's something quickening, maddening
About her formidable grace.

I wait,
Hearing neither man nor mouse,
Except for the clanging Grandfather Clock,
And the creaking, settling of the house.

I am thrilled with gripping passion
The way her red eyes impale the dark--
Fierce, yet driving--like when we met
As I was strolling through the park.

It was a frigid night,
Raw gusts rattled my teeth,
Chilling my quivering bones,
Bleak and cutting, down to my feet.

She was a shadow,
As best I presume,
That engulfed me like a shroud,
Helpless, beneath a blood-red moon.

I could not speak,
My throat was stone,
Yet I felt no harm
Nor feared for my own.

Terror? Not at all!
Not a cry or a shriek,
Yet I was shocked to find
That there was blood on my cheek.

There was a swift pain,
That I recall,
But I paid it no mind
Or considered it at all.

It was a bite,
I can't deny,
But with her kiss,
I was ready to die.

She comes at night;
I hunger, thirst,
For her lips, her tongue,
Her immaculate, unholy curse.

She approaches,
There is a stirring at the door;
The wind--her soul, her breath--ruffles the curtains;
I take her hand and am no more.

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