Pocket Vampire

I reconcile myself to need.
To wanting stinging, aptest,
seigneurial, pugnacious,
handsome as always cracking wise in my
blood things, I think—by pulp
supply of roots or tearing teeth, and/or ardor
for what I vow against but carry
always like my secret self,
the bitten bride,
to rat-consecrated, moon-wharf glum's
glee in gotten-up peignoir
dripping not daisies but rotten, long-aborning
lickable black roses, the smaller
the better to hide my privacy in: it's
pretty good getting, that bite I flirt
but never stick my neck out for.
Yes, Your Woundship.
Would a quibble count? Just one lick?
Damn me. Then,
back into the bidden, unblessed
dark with you, my tiny prince
of dirty comity.
Sin simulacrum.

From American Fanatics, published by University of Pittsburgh Press. Copyright © 2011 by Dorothy Baressi. Used by permission of the publisher.