Wild: Carmilla

An endless twist of limbs and secrets,

From the vampire called Carmilla.

And you, so foolish as to assume her villainy,

have slain a huntress fair.

Yet to the silvered moon she went,

Her footsteps light on forest turf,

Hunting maidens pure

Her sharp teeth drowning in blood and desire

That was probably matched by the ladies.

To ask for your life wasn’t enough.

Cordially, you eat your pittance of meats and sigh of her evil;

She of the raven’s wing hair and blood-tint’d lips

But I, who have seen man commit more hastily to evils less deserved,

I would have spared her.

I would have begged sharp teeth to my white skin,

Have parted my buckwheat hair away from my slender neck and sighed;

There is no greater pleasure than the sacrifice of blood and passion.

I have always thought it thus;

My conclusion fails to surprise me.

Rather, I think that for all the mercy I would have shown,

She was careless in her hunting, faithless in her selection

No more than Cattle for the slaughter, mindless in rows for her blood and milk.

Hunting takes much skill and pleasure,

Not receiving only, but giving it

Making victims enjoy what they offer you

As you languish in the bitter taste of death,

And know I love you violently.

Yes, I understand Carmilla,

I follow blood and love and magic,

Hunted for my wild-sown heart—

But I cannot believe that of you.

You, who treasure the tale so valiantly as to rend it immortal in song and verse,

You are more invested than I,

the humble white witch in God’s service, whispering to tap water,

missing the ocean fiercely, praying to the wild white moon.

The part of me that isn’t so humble,

That part is impressed—

And most concerned.

If Tana longed, so secretively, furtively,

For raven’s-wing hair and sharp teeth as white as milk,

And I long for a little breath of god,

 to help my friends and right such wrongs as He permits—

What do you want?

The obvious answer is hidden among the threads of vanity, and old words,

And the possibility of a careless choice.

You, my friend, are under no obligation to tell me,

But, with the Vampire’s breath on my neck,

And the moon, shining like a savage unto my heart,

Compelling me—

I may ask you, when the time is right.

We will see.