She hears it whirring in the darkened room
And knows another summer bat has found
Its passage to her tangled August dream
Of fruit and worm. Ignoring furry sound,

She pulls the woolen blanket over her,
Afraid the bat will suck her blood, although
She knows it is irrational, the fear.
Engulfed by fetid smells of bed, and so

Humiliated she could die, she hears
Him say, “You goose! To fear the little bat
Who always flies at night this time of year.
Grotesque!—your shadowed fear. And that is that.”

My dear, the shape of what you love or dread
Depends upon your age and stage and bed.

Spring, l995