Baby Dragon

In dreams, she shows me
all the flora and fauna of her nation—
towering sunflowers, and the mythical beasts
she traffics in, all yellow and green:
her lime curls and poker face
in red hipster frames,
and the invisible flames
that secretly flare around her.

She learned to fly by climbing the walls
and sometimes burnt the curtains
just by breathing.
She chatted with herself
and vibrated like an electron.
Drawings poured from her restless mind
over every freshly painted surface.
She always asked “why,”
and the reasons never satisfied her.

I used to like to watch her sleep
when she was little—let’s be honest,
it got a little exhausting,
putting out all those fires
until the smell of smoke made me cough,
but she looked so sweet
with those little folded wings
tucked behind her

She visited me in a dream again last night,
this time in a cornfield, tall, yellow and green
like all her wild familiars
She told me she was ready to grow up
or as she put it in awkward new-age
dream-speak, “You have shown me
the value of ascension.” Whatever that means;
I just felt a kind of shedding—

a softening of armor,
an opening to feeling, something
structured and newly contained
holding all the secrets
of the world of grown-up dragons:
and this fire she carries, strong inside her,
ready to warm up the earth.

© Psyche Marks 2017

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