The Vampire
sits watching by her window
knows the colour of my coat,
when I put the bins out, do the school run.
I turn my face to my children,
ignore her tapping on the glass
but can’t pretend I don’t see her in the doorway –
she has a stick, but moves fast,
trapdoor spider, popping out
seething with need, wheedling,
saying I’m her only friend
and she just wants milk fetching
or to know why her arm has pins and needles –
anything not to be ninety and alone –
except she isn’t alone, has carers, family,
and I invoke these charms, ward her off
with TV and telephone. I make her tea,
but she wants more, sucking greedily
on my wavering energy. So I chalk boundaries,
refuse to enter her domain. Furious,
she makes familiars of passers-by, their knocks
apologetic but summoning. Your neighbour…
and all because, just once, I let her in
when she stood at my threshold in her nightie –
fooled by the hot summer sun, her pleading.
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