You will know him by his powers,
his inhuman speed,
his sinister silence,
the way he can fly at the flick of an eyelid;
by his ability to conceal himself in the shadows,
his talon-like claws,
very sharp;
made for tearing flesh.
Just know that he has to drink blood.
He has to drink blood,
or age fast, falling
to dust if no blood is found.
But then, you will know him by—
he cannot tolerate garlic,
can’t abide sunlight or crosses
and to him, water is loathsome, it dilutes his power.

He drinks blood;
coppery-tasting human blood,
rich, claret human blood,
it is mine he seeks now.

I sense him getting closer,
secreted in the darkest shadows,
concealed by the cloaks in the closet,
hidden beyond the hat stand in the hallway,
stalking slowly up dust-laden stairs
—silent—
he waits for me to fall asleep.
I know it,
yet can stay awake
but for a few minutes more.
It has been 11 days
—264 hours—

I cannot keep my eyes
open much longer,
even though,
I know,
the moment they close
he will siphon the life out of me.
He has tried twice, already,
I am so weak.

Cold, cold, icily cold, he draws the blood from my soul.
He drinks blood;
coppery-tasting human blood,
rich, claret human blood,
it is mine he drinks now.

Polly Stretton © 2020

This poem is one of 42 poems in the 2020 collection The Alchemy of 42. To see more: https://blackpear.net/polly-stretton/the-alchemy-of-42