Today

your dragon purrs, earth-

quaking, scaly metaphor

made heavy flesh, a serpent

 

that circles your world. you,

its catspaw to bat and squeeze

and toss gray skyward

 

where you seek snow

to pillow the hard gorge of falling,

or a hero, a hammer-wielding

 

savior to break the cage of winter.

lift a cup with me, drain the ocean

of ache and illusion. every season

 

has its ending, every Goliath

its David, every snake its eagle.

 

 

 

This poem is the 3rd as part of a collaborative project at artipeeps. The poems center around the nine realms in Viking mythology. The third realm is that of the giants, Jotunheim. “Today” plays with the language of a story wherein Thor and companions are tricked by the illusory magic of giant Útgarða-Loki.. Among other things, Thor is challenged to pick up a gray cat but can lift only his paw; it is revealed later that the cat is actually Jormungand, the serpent that encircles the world. You can find the entire story (which is a part of the Poetic Edda) here under “Fighting Illusions.”

mindful.

strangely tinted dandelions

 

this is how spring comes,
stripes of green between

herring-boned brick, fern-fronding,
bare-armed, broken-eternitied;

mindful. (i am) convalescent,
cognizant of the dragons

that still lean in, hungry.
they bite at me, at

wrists and cheeks and eyes,
blindfully, so that my shape

is not the shape of others, ever.
after dinner, your stereo

won’t work; you ask me to sing, but
i’ve got only that song

where the girl is leaving and the boy
must drop everything to catch her.

(and that is
not us, after all.)

dragons, as everyone knows,
hate the sun. while you are gone, i sit

on the winter-warmed stoop
bare-armed, watching spring come,

scars palely fade, wondering
how this song will end.

déjà vu

sometimes i
ache
for the darkness,

turn my eyes
before the ocean of his
mouth

has d(r)ied
on my
lips,

remember
distinctly
the thick taste

of charcoal sucked
through the brown
slatted shades

that hid sunshine
from the secrets
inside.

there are scalpel-
scars still on
flushed flesh,

mirror-marks
of time that
doesn’t pass,

connective tissue
knotted into daisy-
chains of white tomorrows:

where waters whisper
of salt and rust,
there is yet

frost
to come.
i accustom

myself
to the sound
of endings, learn

to hold my hands
close(d). sleep
is the natural

consequence
of over-
dreaming,

an exhaustive
star-eyed
lumbering

collapse. sometimes
i think i
think too much.