Post Road Magazine #29

Clayfeld's Vampire Fantasy

Robert Pack

        I have conflicted reasons to believe
that smart-ass Clayfeld has had quite enough
of analyzing family compulsions
and fixations and hysterias:
perhaps he is some new variety
of vampire, sucking vital substance from
someone he has depended on.
"Ironic!" he proclaims out loud
to the night air, knowing he's surely got
too many ironies in his life's fire.

        Observing the close perigee full moon
ascend into the startled night, Clayfeld
imagines vampires everywhere
push up their coffin lids, compelled
by stark desire—or is it love?—
to consummate their needful histories.

        Wan Clayfeld weeps for them because
their fated longing can't be eased;
he weeps because his mother is
no longer there to hear him weep;
he weeps because his father can't
exhort him to control his tears
as once upon a fabled time he did.

        So Clayfeld mutters to himself in his
contorted assignation with the moon
that maybe in his reverie he is
the vampire gurgling at his mother's breast;
maybe we need, he ruminates,
each other's lives to live our own
and share each other's deaths to find
nose-thumbing gall defiantly to make
devouring death more bearable?
"Now there's an irony to feed upon!"
he chortles underneath his breath.       

    Bemused by his own appetite for puns
that split their meanings from themselves,
irony-hearted Clayfeld bites
the red delicious apple in his hand
as warm juice gathers at the corners
of his lips; he lets smooth sweetness
swell and overflow and soothe the ache
that shudders in his ribs and down his thighs.

        He conjures lovers in their rocking beds
all lavishing salacious kisses as
the brazen moon retreats, diminishes,
releasing them to dream perhaps of him,
perhaps of me, imprisoned in
snared Clayfeld's cloven ecstasy.


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