My 2,000th Dream Involving a Vampire

He hurtled through the rooms
to the last one where I lay knocking
my narrow bed against the wall,
and leapt upon my chest

like a enormous cat. He said he’d forgotten
his napkin so would first
chew off my hand to use as same.
Then began.

I know the danger: his muscled body
on top of my body,
a certain dark humor, my dead father’s
fastidious manners, his rage
when as children we eschewed napkins
for our hands—

mostly I think his speed
and perfect landing.

My Sweet Old Man

I dreamt I had to boil an old man in a pot.
Red and stringy, with knobby knees
he was my precious darling, my sweet old man
as every women has in her heart.

First he wanted me to whip him
as his girlfriend used to do
in her leopard print bikini
her long black hair like smoke.

but I’m a shy person
(whipping’s fine in books)
no strength in my arms
a stay-at-home, a cook—

Hence this idea of the pot.
Shiny and tall so he would nicely fit.
Only a little water.
How happy he would be as it warmed his old ass.

And then?  I woke up. It’s been weeks.
Naturally I wonder
which of my gasps, my dizzy fits
the little madness with no name

that flares in the afternoon
is simply that skinny fellow
boiling in his pot?
My precious darling, my sweet old man.