Elizabeth Barrette's poetry has appeared in a wide variety of publications. She is also the Managing Editor of PanGaia and Assistant Editor of SageWoman; she selects poetry for both magazines. Dark Planet is designed and edited by Lucy A. Snyder. If you spot any errors, or if you have any comments, please contact her at lusnyde@cyberus.ca. All materials copyright 1996-2001 by their respective creators. No stories, articles, poems or images from this webzine may be posted or published without the written consent of their creator(s).

vrykolakos of Venice by Elizabeth Barrette a glint, as if of metal, in the shadows soon resolves into a smile of ice two crescent moons turning their backs on each other between sunset-sultry lips and a scent of dusk hangs in the air like smoke, heavy yet elegant, while sharp-eared violins wail behind Venetian blinds starlight on dark water beckons and she comes to take his hand leading him down to the landing where gondolas flock near like long, lean swans when they kiss, she can taste basil and tomato on this tongue, while her breath leaves a bite of copper at the back of his mouth but oh, he does not care, for her eyes are black Venetian beads gilded with memory and her hair is a cape of sable lace down her back and twin roses bloom on her brown cheeks he can feel her pressing against him like a cool wind, seeking, and something within him bubbles up an answer against her slender limbs in the quiet night the gondolier pretends not to notice he thinks he has seen it all so when they come together he gazes out over the water and admires the moon keen teeth meet through a fold of flesh lighting a fire of bliss on misery's wick and the young man does not care that she burns his candle at both ends he only cares that it burns, warming a cold place deep inside, setting him free from what his father wrote in stone free as ash floating up towards the sky her voice caresses his ear telling the cost of what he has bought: he does not care that he must give up the sun and leave on the midnight train for somewhere far from her territory for her last words echo in his heart as the gondola bumps against the dock, a promise of eternal compromise: we'll always have Venice, my love