Vampire
Or, How I Became a Poet
Diane Funston

Strange vampire of the sun,
I sought and sucked
every dappled drop of sunlit space.
Gorging myself on light,
peculiar bat in flight by day,
eschewing dim cave companions

I moved stealthily
to side-step shadows.
Draping my velvet cloak
over bones cold as ash
when distanced from
sun’s luminary libido.

Wearily, I searched on overcast days,
clouded quests forcing me
to turn inward.
Fanning embers with my satin wings
giving warm-blooded life
to long lost memories—
still pulsing,
still painful.

Warmth not as easy
as embracing the sunlight
and stealing the heat
needed to survive.
My wings evolved to fingers,
holding firm the pen,
dribbling words to paper.
Poems in vampire’s blood,
not circulating naturally,
but sucked from sources
surrounding me