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.
originally published in the anthology Dark Ink: A Poetry Anthology Inspired by Horror
I'm tired of the American spirit,
the boys of summer and their fans,
team effort and hey batta batta.
Maybe it's just another thing
that I don't understand.
Like God or running.
But I was that black-clad chick
behind the bleachers, smoking.
I don't know anything
about sports, period.
(My brother shakes his head:
"There are many ways to be stupid.")
True, for me there was no beauty,
no satisfying crack of ball and bat,
just another chance to be a girl
without hand-eye coordination.
A ball coming in my direction
meant I should do three things:
my arms like an X
over my head, and wait for death.
I've got enough
to write about already, don't you?
Shouldn't your poems be
about girls like me anyway?
How you loved kissing us in the rain?
How nothing was better
than the mist of menthol
between our shining lips?
Don't get me wrong.
I don't care if you play the game.
Have fun. Slide into home.
But I don't want to
bask in the amber glow
of another boyhood in Brooklyn,
hear about your World Series
heartbreak or existential loneliness
first encountered in the outfield.
Don't try to prove
you're not as fey as a poet
by applauding jocks, please.
I don't want to read those poems
just like you don't want to
read about my body.
first published in Gyroscope