On the Back of a Cow, Vampire Bats French-kiss with Mouthfuls of Blood

A pair tiptoe-fly across the soft dark, then do 
a kind of running jump, landing on the cow's nape.

What does it feel, or does it feel at all; or is it mostly
unbothered? It only shakes its head a little, tethered

as it is to the fence, when they begin their blood-
feast. St. Augustine wrote, Inhabit, and you shall be

inhabited. Dwell, and you shall be dwelt in.* You could
call it love, this investment in another; this shared

appetite for what sustains life. But the bats are only 
being true to their nature. If they lick each others' mouths, 

it's precious currency rather than a  kiss: not ardor 
but a social bond. It's posible to languish from a lack 

of love, even die of a broken heart. In many accounts, 
the lovestruck sport a pallor akin to being drained of blood. 




(*Sermon on Love, 10)