Blood origin stains
Bucharest to Budapest corridor
I, a dusky cocktail shaker of Romani
Transylvanian Dragon
And a hint of Hun
Jewelry of choice
Pungent garlic garlands
Neckerchief hiding vulnerable spots
Wild wolves leaping
Through unshuttered windows
Where babies in baskets
Dream on the cold wood stove
Mother rarely sleeping
Until children of age
To self-protect
All those years
You stood outside
Waiting for me to be
Old enough for you
And I knew
How wrong
How good
Your lips felt
Secret bruise throbbing
Under my fringed shawl
Skin growing paler with each taste
Then one night
Unspeakable delight
Lying on icy stone
Never to return home
Eternal bliss with you…
© 2016 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)
IMAGE: Budapest abandoned house (FB post)
poeturja 
Ooooh I like this… darkly delicious and eerily inviting 🙂
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Thanks, Christine! I am re-reading Kostova’s The Historian and visions of vampires dance through my head in the midnight hour 🙂
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The visions have turned into a beautiful poem 🙂
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Very good thank you for sharing this.
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Thank you, jstreetpoet!
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YIKES! Death, stay away. from me chilling to the bone. That picture is so spooky. Great on Clarissa.
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Thanks, Daisy! As you probably know from reading some of my “memoir” poems, my dad and his brother did sleep on a stove in old Romani slave quarters in Moldova and the shutters were left open. He was afraid of dogs all his life because the wild dogs (or wolves) would try to get in and nip them. Whew! I try to think of events like that when I’m in a self-pity mode 🙂
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i loved this!
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Oh, thank you so much! I enjoy your drawings and poems!
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Reblogged this on Just an Old Dog….
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Thanks for the reblog, Steve!
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