Artwork: The Goblin's House by Will Jacques

Dracula Considers Writing a Memoir
LindaAnn LoSchiavo

His library contains expensive books,
Some autographed or leather-bound except
For his, whose memories are kept alive,
Poised on the empty dance floor of his mind.

The inkwell winks, inviting him to write
Without delay, lined paper his patient
Servant, recording wild deeds secretly.

Each season of the afterlife becomes
His outline, words like bones newly coffined.

Domestics unlock cobwebbed trunks, unpack
Undated mice-nipped letters, diaries,
Recalling sentences of women who
Kissed back, held hands, embraced in dark hallways,
Relationships creating lonelier
Nights after appetite had used them up.

Remorse nor pity rules his ragged realm,
Where he survives in sunless solitude.

Chapters completed, Dracula’s quill rests.

Indulging now in pleasure-crested pricks,
The Count reflects on boredom life-in-death
Inflicts on vampires. Had he known his fate,
He’d still prefer it to an early grave.

 

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