Dracula is in charge of the blood bank.
His bloody mouth smile sickens me.
His lips make sucking motions.
Sometimes they appear to tremble.
He’s like a kid in a candy store; I can’t
imagine how such things can happen.
The sinking feeling has sunk in.
I see him swallowing blood as if
blood was going out of existence.
I cannot believe my eyes. I cannot
believe the things they see, Old
Dracula at the blood bank, eyes
looking up at the sky where the moon
reflects his shadow as blood spills
from his lips. He imagines that’s how
dreams should be. He has painted
his face and feet red with the blood
of men and women just declared dead,
from the suddenly wounded, even children.
Old Dracula does not care how small they are.
Sometimes he sleeps. Sometimes he’s up all day.
When the sun rises he remains in the blood bank.
I see him covered with blood. He is always covered
with blood. He is a mosquito addicted to blood.
It must be a curse to have such horrible thirst
and never feel full.
About the Author: Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, born in Mexico, lives in California and works in the mental health field in Los Angeles. His first book of poems, Raw Materials, was published by Pygmy Forest Press. His poetry has been published by Alternating Current Press, Blue Collar Review, Counterpunch, Deadbeat Press, New Polish Beat, Poet’s Democracy, and Ten Pages Press. His latest chapbook, Make the Light Mine, was published by Kendra Steiner Editions.
More by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal:
“When I Was a Child”
Image Credit: Still from Nosferatu (1922)
Nosferatu in Florida
By Roy Bentley
Maybe vampires hear an annunciatory trumpet solo.
Maybe they gather at the customary tourist traps
like a blanket of pink flamingos plating a lake
and lake shore by the tens of thousands to drink.
The whole, tacky blood circus is theme-park stuff
and as Disneyesque as lifting the lid on a casket
to flit about sampling the inexhaustible offerings
of O Positive like the Sunday brunch at IHOP.
But if you had a booming, amphitheatrical voice
and had been recently rescued from the grave—
if you wore the republic of the dark like a cape
at Halloween, all bets would be off by the signage
for Paradise Tire & Service, a neon-green royal palm.
Bela Lugosi could materialize on a trailer-park lawn
and the locals would miss it, though lap dogs howled
as kingdoms rose and fell. You could say a kingdom
of fangs glows and drips red by the broken temples
and wide, well-lit aisles of Best Buy and Wal-Mart.
By the shadowed homeless holding up placards
hand-lettered in English, as if the kind-hearted
of the nations of the world spoke one language
and could be counted on to forgive misspellings,
bad syntax that announces one life is never enough.
The resurrection of the body is tough everywhere.
In the Sunshine State, despite eons to shake off loss,
a body carries the added burden of perpetual labor
and cyclical, inescapable debt. The dead know this.
(This poem first appeared in Shenandoah)
About the Author: Roy Bentley has published five books of poems, including Walking with Eve in the Loved City, which was selected as a finalist for the 2018 Miller Williams Poetry Prize and is available from the University of Arkansas Press or at Amazon. Bentley’s poems have appeared in Able Muse, Rattle, Blackbird, Shenandoah, Prairie Schooner, The Southern Review, and elsewhere. He is the recipient of a Creative Writing Fellowship in Poetry from the National Endowment for the Arts, as well as fellowships from the Florida Division of Cultural Affairs and the Ohio Arts Council.