Samuel Minier:

Writing in the Dark

I stretch tall as a sliver:

white toothpicks bundled in black lycra,

dim waist with glistening navel,

tits barely tangible from speed-bump ribs,

clavicle and neck jutting to support

sharp crests of chin and jaw before they

fall to cavernous mouth, carved-out eyes.

I glide with the scrappers, slip through the night

like a blade. The city flashes in darkness:

yellow cab beams, red-pointed pupils,

thousand-window offices like blank mirrors.

My passing is announced in gawks and sucked breath.

Hands beckon, cajole and swarm, but

I slide by, sleight magic, too bare to grasp.

One face paces through the crowd,

stubbled and greedy, his need so hard

I can smell its throbbing as he stalks.

I allow him to follow for ten blocks before

suddenly turning, matching his stare, letting

him devour me in a single visual bite.

I draw him forward, my curling finger

beckoning toward the alley.

He fumbles hurriedly at his zipper until

I seize his wrists. He strains against my

twig hands, smiling at my grip. I smile

in return, and his eyes widen at my teeth,

so long and lean as I cobra-strike in

a burst of crimson, his face

collapsing like a slit plastic sack.

One mouthful, barely a sip,

just enough to coat my throat.

I leave the gushing rest for

those weak enough to eat.

I am so hollow, so hungry,

so darkly radiant it burns, and I feel

I could stretch forever through the night.