Roots, Rik

Vampyre

1. Dogs have knocked the coffin down
2. to the ground in search of his bones.
3. While the lid holds, the last slants
4. of the ebbing sun catch his face
5. through dry rot panels, rashing his skin.
6.  
7. Nightfall. He unhooks the security latch
8. and levers the squealing lid open,
9. winces, then stretches. Checks the room
10. for stakes and stakeholders. Stands
11. and shakes the soil from his cloak.
12.  
13. Sun rash has singed his cheeks, hatcheting
14. across forgotten laughter ley-lines.
15. By touch, he applies a white foundation,
16. thick, panning his visage. A cherry lipgloss
17. soothes his parchment lips. Fangs are flossed.
18.  
19. Beyond ablutions, he breathes deep and takes
20. the shape of Wolf. Calling the hounds of hell
21. to heel, he leaves his tumbledown crypt and pads
22. through municipal burial fields. Aims for the edge
23. of town and the cultivated deserts beyond.
24.  
25. Food is scarce in these declining decades.
26. Beef and long-pork are both contaminated prey.
27. He settles for short-pork, ripping the pig
28. before it can scream, tossing torn haunches
29. to his black pack. He gulps ruby fluid. Unglamorous,
30.  
31. yet safe. Leaving the factory farm, a glance
32. of moonlight shivers his spine. He checks for cats
33. before shaking his form into gargoyle-faced Bat. Takes
34. wing across wheat fields, arcs across pearl clouds.
35. Watches farmhands wreck profits with circles in corn.