An Update on Vampires

Did you hear about Farmer Brzezicki’s sheep?

Used to be, that was the question on beer-gossiped lips

in candlelit inns decorated with barley-dusted farmers

enjoying a pint or two after long nights on the lookout.

The barmaid might pretend to be interested in

their rantings—the livestock splattered with blood and demon saliva—

for an extra coin at closing time.

The men begin their drunken search for the white-bloated creature

risen from the coffin of Brzezicki's son—

a terrible tragedy that was. 

Now, scientists proclaim there is no need 

to nail a crucifix to your barn doors, your bedframe— 

you can read articles in the op-eds telling you how to

KEEP BLOODSUCKERS AT BAY . . . complemented by your morning coffee.

So when your daughter is ready to show you her puncture scars,

you can sternly shake your head. No, 

that doesn’t happen to good girls who close their windows at night. 

Just don’t be surprised when her kindergarten lips drip red 

onto the new wool carpet, beside the fresh corpse of the family dog.

Now nobody gets Chico in the divorce.

Emily Bulicz-Arnelien