Suppose that Stephenie Meyer did not dream
the dream that spawned sparkling vampires
on a “vegetarian” diet –
what would happen to the swooning fangirls swarming Patterson or Lautner, calling their husbands
“Edward” because their love is only moderately warmer than a vampire?
Would they go about their daily drudgery:
trudging to work,
dragging feet to school,
plucking grey hairs,
going to the bathroom –
dormant lumps of rock.
Or would their souls flutter
against the smudged glass walls of their bodies, panthers prowling
a black, dusty basement,
pacing from attic wall to attic wall, fingernails scalping heads.
Hungry for Prince Charming with an edge
defining his cardboard face -
a person not like her
defying the laws of physics with his everlasting youth and impossible dietary requirements -
an objet petit
unattainable, a pedestal
of feminine masculinity that’s not androgyny.
Suppose there was no Jacob or Edward or Bella,
the girl with your face,
to figure in fantasies, gilding nights and days and in-between times?
Men in pinstriped vests punted into adventure despite the apron strings umbilical-cording them home
(but only after he gets the girl
with your face):
But werewolves and vampires are always hungry and imagination is infinite,
an all you can dream buffet.
Suppose the Twilight books were still trees.
You wouldn’t have that cutout
staring at you while you sleep
or that hand bag with their faces on it cradling your make-up, your emergency tampon, your diary.
Suppose there were no — hell.
We’d still be bitten
with hunger while starving ourselves
on a diet of scrambled eggs, strawberry-jammed toast, and bloody steak.