The child began to cry.
Until he cried the dragon and her friend were beginning to think, how hard can this be?
After, they knew. They both tried feeding him. Then they consulted the notable tome by Dame Doxia and in swift succession they tried wrapping and unwrapping, gentle rocking, baths, what have you. To no avail. The tiny bundle of joy was inconsolable.
In a desperate, last option turn, the dragoness flew. She got goat to cinch the baby’s sling close to her chest and she flew.
What was it? Fear of a bigger thing? Joy? The baby stopped crying and soared high above the earth with his dragon mama.
And when that happened it changed everything.
Some humans say that dragon blood has magical power–immortality? Clear-sightedness? A certain scaly invulnerability. Or..the opposite might be true. Dragon blood is toxic, dangerous, even deadly.
One can only imagine how either assumption would lead to consequences for dragons in their already complicated relationship with humans.
But what did it mean to the dragon mother, torn and bleeding from self-injury? Why had she turned upon her own flesh and what did it mean for the child?
The she-goat was all sensible nurse. She swaddled the baby and wrapped him close to the source of his nourishment so he could nurse as she took care of his wounded mother.
She had brought an extra supply of her own honey mixed yoghurt for the child. She filled clever oilskin bowl that had cradled the yogurt with water from the clear pool at the mouth of the dragon’s lair, a layer she herself had helped to make more hospitable to the needs of a tiny human. She ripped a strip of muslin with her sharp teeth and dipped it into the pool then she used her mouth to clumsily upend the water skin and pour the water over the fresh wounds. She nuzzled the wounds very delicately with the damp muslin and finally applied a poultice of frankincense, myrrh and thyme to the cleaned cuts.
There was a tragic kindness in her ministrations.
He swiped his card
At an entertainment center
I should ask him someday
What was it that he bought
At a place identified richly
As a circus, a carnival, a magician, a fortune teller or a psychic?
A parade of elephants
And bearded ladies
March in my imagination
Followed by the sequined hucksters
Peddling their crystal-ball-brilliant
Everyone has dragons in their history. We are ubiquitous in the minds of men. Every culture has a dragon mythology. Even cultures which would be far too cold to support reptiles of our size and climate needs have memories of dragons.
Only in modern times have things become ridiculously obscured (when they were simple to untangle if you could live a thousand years).
Dinosaur is just another name for dragon. Let us face it–it is an epithet. We, ancient race of monarchs, reduced to brute beasts? Mindless and dull…
Leave it to humans to think they can figure things out to a point of control only to find they have lost the heart of the story. And without the heart, the rest becomes a silly fiction.
I cut the boy’s hair
It falls in curls onto the floor
I scoop it up
I could keep every moment
Of his babyhood
I could tie him
To the hand
Of God like
A boy tied to a balloon by a string
How strong is that?
Like DNA strong–
A helix of thought stretched out forever
A unique sequence
Linking me to you
Young woman wants white
Or at least cream or ivory
Smooth against skin
Young woman wants
Flowers in her hair
And candlelight and dancing
Young woman wants the illusion
The world for a day
When she’s done
Nothing to earn it
Old woman wants
All her days of waiting
Back to her like doves
Streaks across the sky
Old woman knows
The vows we make are binding
Like the course of a dried up
We know what once was
And if she is lucky–
She will write her own
Old woman vows–
They will be the words that float
Behind her in every reflection
Of the old woman she has become
Will we cling together
In a turbulent sea
We will walk the same direction
And I will tell you the truth
Be generous for you
And always think you are my beautiful
To the end of