all those who came after

Sometimes I hurl them
into a great furnace,
flames lapping flesh
from bone like
popsicles in August.

Now and again
I am Vlad,
and they are my rats—
or disloyal subjects—
but usually rats.

Occasionally,
if I'm feeling pedestrian,
I simply knock them into the brick wall
on the opposite side of the street,
leaving a spiderweb of fractures.

But today, I just yawn,
and with only half-feigned indifference,
I ask about the weather,
coursework, and if
she likes the new apartment.