Michael was never overbearingly
aggressive, but he could walk down most dark
city streets late at night, uncaringly.
He walked with purpose, and his dress was stark,
and whether on his late night strolls or jogs,
chances that someone would notice him were slim;
he could pass by and not wake guard dogs --
be on top of cats before they noticed him.
He’d cultured an invisibility.
He was sensitive, analytical,
possessed of easy sociability,
careful about matters political
or religious and fond of observing
in a way that, if known, was unnerving.

But down a back street in L.A. one night,
he was startled by a sudden attack --
a hissing sizzle, then a blaze of light.
Someone had pitched a lit “fountain” at his back.
“Damn!” he thought, “Don’t these people ever think to look
or realize that someone might get burned?”
But, true to his form, he quietly took
the less confrontive tack, but as he turned
the corner to walk away, he’d been caught,
himself unaware and observed.
“Here, quick! Take these fireworks that I’ve got!”
And, if not as though Fate stepped in, it served.
They’d never seen him through the glare produced:
To volley back would be fun, he deduced.

Thinking back, he couldn’t remember that
he’d ever lit them -- even seen a match --
Only how good he’d felt to feel he’d spat
sparks back with a lesson for them to catch.
His weapons supplier had disappeared
momentarily, he thought, but then found
she had, even as he now, turned and veered
into the shadows and hunched to the ground,
to listen to their antagonists shock --
Insults pitched to some anonymity,
since they had never seen him on his walk
and now couldn’t guess his vicinity.
Plus, he’d a new companion and she was
tops, if beauty’s not judged by what it does.

She smiled at him in relaxed content,
flashing the whitest teeth he’d ever seen.
Her raven hair, cut short, was just his bent,
and her eyes were deep iridescent green.
She had a daring look about her, too,
like Emma Peel stepped off the T.V. screen;
she showed sharp reflexes, was impromptu,
magnificent, mischievous and serene.
Some time had passed before he heard his voice
say, “My name’s Michael. Thank you; that was fun.”
“I’m happy to have influenced your choice
and taught them a lesson; they’re not so dumb,
though the fourth has been over for a week.
I also liked our game of hide ‘n’ seek.

“You’re a good player, because you’re patient
and you like to step back and watch; I know.
I’m up for some more, if you’re complacent.
Ready for fun, or do you have to go?”
He couldn’t recall ever having had
a prior commitment in all his life
other than being with her, good or bad.
He’d already sized her up as his wife.
“Sure,” he said, controlling his tongue-tied plight,
“Are you hungry? Would you like to go eat?”
“No thanks,” she said, “I gorged myself tonight,
but I know where you can get something sweet.
Though it’s only our first meeting, I feel ...
very pleased to meet you; my name’s Camille.”

He was transfixed with her grace as they walked,
and suddenly a cobweb caught his face.
“There’s a lesson!” she laughed, “You’ve just been stalked.
Everything alive feels it owns the space,
and she had claimed this little bit of air --
this spider, I mean, the one that’s on your back.”
Michael flipped his collar, “Is it still there?”
”Don’t worry, you warded off her attack.
You flipped her with the fibers of your shirt,
stronger than her fibers, but the same --
one to ensnare and one to fend off hurt --
each part of a territorial game.
Want to know what made it your space instead?
Come on, I’ll teach you,” and she ran ahead.

“Pay attention now, here’s your next lesson!”
Before he thought to catch her she was gone
like a ghost, or such was his impression,
as she turned the corner across the lawn.
Michael charged around the corner and found
himself running headlong into a group
of men, nearly knocking one to the ground.
He apologized to this ethnic troupe
and stepped far aside to let them pass by
and was grabbed from the shadows by Camille.
He’d first asked “How...?” but he didn’t ask why.
She joined in apologetic appeal
to the three men, and after they had passed,
“Timing’s just space,” was all she said, at last.

Somewhere in his brain, a lesson had sunk,
but he didn’t know what to make of her.
When he attempted reason, he felt drunk,
in observation, felt his senses blur.
She kissed him, saying he looked cute confused,
put him in her red Ferrari and drove
through the Hollywood Hills, he too bemused
to even ask about the spell she wove.
“You must like fireworks,’ he said as he
kicked aside some that were on her car floor.
“I only use them for things like we
just did and carelessly thrown I abhor
fireworks; my last lover died that way --
Burned up in his house as he slept that day.”

On this topic, Michael let silence fall
and, before he was aware of staring
at her breasts, she pulled over to a wall
just off the road, parked, turned to him, glaring,
and said, “As of now you cannot get out
except past me; you’ve just been snared again.”
The wall was too close when he looked about
to allow him to exit there, but then,
crawling over Camille didn’t sound bad.
When he told her this, she leered and replied,
“Under certain circumstances; be glad
that you’re among the fortunates who’ve tried.
There’s much I like in you but be alert;
I’m a huntress, not a casual flirt.”

She started up the car again and turned
down a dirt road he hadn’t seen before.
He couldn’t quite grasp all that he had learned;
he couldn’t guess her game, only the score.
She was being easy on him, and yet
he felt he was most certainly losing.
She didn’t act as though they had just met;
he sensed he was headed for a bruising.
Again he began to stare at her bust,
which never seemed to rise with expansions --
nonetheless, perfectly kindled his lust.
At one of those old Hollywood mansions,
she stopped the car and invited him in.
“You live here alone?” he asked with a grin.

”Yes, she said and, as though reading his mind,
“all you have to worry about is me,
and like I said, I like you; I’ll be kind,”
and she smiled not quite reassuringly.
“‘Welcome to my parlor,’ said the spider,
‘I’ve preyed, that you may stay, so please don’t fly.’”
she laughed (...thrust the front door open wider),
“Here I will suspend you and keep you high.”
He next remembered sitting on her couch,
while she undid the buttons on his shirt,
bit his bared neck so hard that he yelled ouch
and next removed her blouse and leather skirt.
Then no more rough stuff, threats and all of that;
in bed, she was a passive pussy cat.

Loving and open, following his lead,
she became his ultimate fantasy,
completely satisfying ev’ry need.
A deep stupor filled his body as she
and he were both dressed and driving him home.
He hadn’t requested to spend the night,
in part, because his brain seemed turned to foam,
and partly because he didn’t feel right
to risk offense against her insistence.
He was drained and knew, in more than one way,
she’d totally lowered his resistance.
After thank yous, he had nothing to say.
“The next full moon, we’ll have our rendezvous;
you’ll feel the urge,” she said, “I’ll wait for you.”

Having all he thought was obtainable
was draining, but he’d slept well, so why
he remained tired wasn’t explainable.
He lounged in bed until twelve-forty.
Paging through the morning paper, he read
a young boy had been found dead in the park
“On pure premonition,’ his mother said,
“I told him not to go out after dark,
but he had to go set off fireworks.”
No cause of death or fireworks were found.
Michael thought, “Someone really hates those jerks;
I’ll tell Camille, when I see her around,
assuming that that’s to be permitted.
There’s a lot her instructions omitted.”

Entertaining psychotic fantasy,
something so vaguely ascertainable
in the back of his mind rose uneasy
until it was barely containable.
Why would she buy fireworks for a lark?
How’d he grown so callous? A boy was dead.
He checked where she had bit him, but no mark
was left, though the idea stuck in his head
that, at that moment, she’d be in the ground --
Camille, who was the loveliest of perks,
to which he’d been introduced and now bound,
along with her world of demonic works.
Legends throughout time never admitted:
Vampirism’s sexually transmitted.

 
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