Vampyre
by Sarah Brown Weitzman
There are none left now
to say what sort
of child he once was
or if he had been one
to stay indoors too long
a serious lad yet curious
about the rosy children
he watched from the tower.
Preferring fall’s witherings
to spring’s noisy beginnings
perhaps one winter day
he came upon a red berry bush
bent by the weight of ice.
Had he found that crush
of crimson upon the white neck
of snow wildly disturbing?
After that perhaps he couldn’t stop
himself from attending the hunts
to the end, not quite knowing yet,
but nothing so crude
as beating the servants
or slicing away at the dogs.
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