Bread and Blood


What will I do when I have written

the last word I have

to give you,

like a foolish pedant spending his meagre pension

to impress the girl on the acrobat's lap?

Ten years, I have been the dragon

in the cave of my skull,

hoarding baubles for you:

This one is the color of her hair;

This one, turquoise blue, her eyes;

This one, perfect with a green dress.

This one, hard, disturbs my sleep.

I go foraging, consuming cities:

Gold to complement her skin,

Silver to contrast.

These pearls lustrous, opaque, her stone.

I would take you to a canyon rim,

turn a stone to bread and

offer you all this,

if you would worship me.

"It isn't what I want."

And what will you do, when the water

rushing through the burst dam

drops to its native flow?

Will you stand ankle-deep in the stream,

taking that small pleasure

in the canyon sun?

Will you look around, surrounded by bare stones, and say,

"I loved it here, when this was a lake"?

Poetry Writing Dancing Badger