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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