Featured Poem 10/24/02:


  Old cruncher stalks the midnight prize. He knows
she's out there, a juicy warmblood
whose neck is his perfect small world:
white earth of flesh, rock of bone,
and luscious vein tributaries,
sleek with red.  He turns a corner

and there she is, a fluffy lamb-girl
strolling ahead with dreaming gait. Almost too easy.
"Look at my darling," he thinks, "so tender and kind."
God bless the meek, who die so young.
Will she beg, cry? Her eyes adore?
His claws unsheath with switchblade clicks.
His sideburns swell, his pulses cry NOW.

She looks up
and there he is, the dark real thing.
Slowly, voluptuously, he bends his lip
to her nectar neck, drives his nails
through the lace on her breast, and feels –

Sweet Jesus! he thinks.  PLEASE tell me that's not fur.
But already he dangles from her iron wrist
like a dolly. He's eaten alive
by her eyes, steel brilliants
in a hairy angel face. She licks him slowly
like the sweetest plum, breathes
"Marry me, bat-boy?"  Her wolf teeth gleam.
He thinks, "I'm dead." She bounds away for home.

Dark the earth, wild the wind and stars.
Mashed to his ear
a terrible nuptial drum:  her heart's
boom.  Boom.  BOOM.

© Margaret Benbow

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