Creatures of the Night : A poem by Boris Glikman
These are
creatures of the
Night
that I
cannot
bear during
Daytime.
Day, uncouth, arrogant Day
deigns no comfort for
their existence.
Only Night, demure
soft-speaking Night
broods them
to the fullness
of term.
For the rude,
intolerant brightness
of Day
shrieks at
their unnatural visage,
pushes them back
into the womb’s
abode.
Only night’s Moon
succours them
with its milky radiance,
the golden mead
of the Sun
being as though
vilest viper venom
to their young
tender mouths.
No birth pangs
accompany
their creation,
fully-formed
they spring forth
with such hale vigour,
confidence
that I become
but an adjunct,
a pale copy
of their existence,
as if they are
the begetter
and I am but a helpless infant
devoid of all knowledge,
sapped of all
force.
Born with
no blood
nor nature’s yolk
they feast
on the nearest flesh
consuming voraciously
that of which they came,
devouring,
like hideous grubs,
their creator
from inside.
So eager are they
to leave their natal home,
they themselves
chew off
the life cord
that once
bound them to me,
My own offspring
made my
nemesis.
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