vampire

I knew it. I had a vision.
The 1st last time for you
that I was as you were. A shadow

or whatever-the-fuck,

I, Venetian draped in goatskin.
What popped was a vessel.
What called from on high
and yet still me searching as through slits,
still me emic and mimsy howling
Wrong Road, I refused to turn off.

Nero Redivivus

[Labyrinth of the Jardin Horta, Mundet, Barcelona]

They mark the graves of plague victims with marble relief skulls in the floors
of the cathedral, bones crossed in an X beneath them. Only, it reminds you

of pirates and nazis. You take pictures of each one to post them to social media. You are
there to be there. You are highlighted. The soul exists only insofar as you. You could

take a merchant vessel. You could follow orders and you could sink into the Earth
beneath the glittery eyes of heaven to be stepped on. You could empty a village, you

could be a walking mark. You write for lightning and the cave and a monochromatic
bat and for when the shadow crawls like a cock across the blanket, drawn inexorable
by the scent of blood to heave you gasping, hand to mouth from death into eternal life.

Natalie Mariko is a writer from New Jersey, currently residing in Greece. Her debut anthology, HATE POEMS, was published by the independent Australian publishers, no more poetry, in 2023. She is managing editor of the annual interdisciplinary arts and fashion magazine, CODE, and a former poetry editor of SAND Journal. Her works and voice have appeared widely, both online and in print.