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At Dusk

The Vampire Lady does a languorous striptease before seven full-length mirrors that stand as sentries around her otherwise unused "living room." As she does so, she sings: Feet long boats, ankles a deer's, calves a girl's, hips a shipwreck, waist a drawing in of breath, neck a dying swan's, face . . . Here the Lady V. never knows which lyrics best fit. Her face is beautiful, horrible, young and old the way ladies' countenances can be in Hollywood, as smug as the mugs of Renaissance Madonnas, as la Gioconda, as Medusa, weary as Parisian absinthe drinkers or Thai ladyboys, masculine underneath its femininity, below the lilac eye shadow and the darkened lips, Weimar sexy, Upper East Side cool, an alluring, captivating, skin-tingling nothingness. Forever,the Lady sings and turns to whatever lover is or isn't there.


first published in Dark Ink: A Poetry Anthology Inspired by Horror