[Poem] Lucy Westenra

To die took two hundred steps— the final one is the pounce into the monster’s arms.

"Lucy Westenra"

Gorgeous ghost girl, bite into a
poisoned apple, meant for you but 
three souls younger. A spectre of satiation, 
just around the bend of mildew,
doll joints aching. You followed the
man with the cloven hooves until the
end of the known world and now
the rot permeates your being. 

The stake is gentle when compared to the beast.

Did that virgin girl find her rest in the embrace of the bat?
Was the final ache the sweetest one? The hurt reminiscent
of the bounce of soft golden ringlets on the cold hard stone
of the grave. Ever-awake, always asleep, 
you walk a tightrope of ill fortune.

The glass of the coffin is as thin as the eyelid, closed
only as a false protection charm in the moonlit night. 
There is no god in the bay, not across that cursed harbour. 
To die took two hundred steps— the final one is the pounce into the 
monster’s arms. Three velvet suitors line the casket. 

Up in the dark room, your mother unravels
the stitching in her frail heart.
What is the static supposed to do about it?

Switching the channel is useless when the dial is set to love, unconditionally.

Front room love, parlour love, settee love
never dies. The devil was your friend before he
was the face of a faceless melancholy or the
voice of a kind of agony you can only place
after the grandfather clock chimes nine—

A secret kept in the first room, the first house,
is one puncture wound away from the world.

They'll not mention the prophecies in the obituary,
nor the dreams, nor the horror. Gentle hearts 
have broken for less: you are the proof, my dear. 

Over absinthe, they’ll focus their talks on the
rush of pale blood in your cheeks. The life lost—
not slain, but merely relinquished in the battle. 
Your supposed friends won’t soon forget the shadow of you,
who finally knew, with preciseness, what she hungered for.

Collage of Whitby Abbey (OC) and a still from “Bram Stoker’s Dracula” (1992)

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This poem was posted as part of the limited time submission prompt “Death and the Maiden (again)”

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Sabrina Angelina is dedicated to the intersection of love and violence, a term she coined to describe classical Romanticism's tendency to pair passion and suffering, tragedy and pleasure, together. Consumed by this concept, she writes on Substack and curates the White Lily Society page, dedicated to arts and culture.

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