Wrestling the Dragon
Eric Millard
I'm wrestling with the dragon in my closet again,
That red, scaly beast of wiles and whims.
Some wandering beauty unlocked the door,
And now it thrashes about in throes of impatient fury,
Straining to break free of my grasp and escape its prison.
Its thick tail, bristling bony spines,
Whips and spasms catlike, smashing into drywall,
Tossing tables and chairs
As though they were no more than furniture in a doll house.
Glass sprays in bursts of silvery splinters,
And geysers of flame spew from its blistering mouth
To lick at my chest, singeing skin and hair
And leaving dark circles of scorched carpet on the floor.
I grapple with one clawed forearm,
Then another, twisting this way and that,
My fingers rake the crimson scales,
Which fall like pink rose petals among the glass shards.
Damn dragon, if you wish to soar free
In a sea-sky of empty blue,
Then fly.
Beat your leathery wings
Like some extinct pterosaur.
Glide and swoop from cliff to shore
And find the maiden who set you free.
A few hours pass,
A few hours spent collecting glass in an aluminum bucket
And carrying armfuls of shattered furniture remains to the shed,
Before the dragon's scarlet bulk returns, dejectedly,
Cow-sized head hung low, as though it were a heavy burden to bear.
Docile, tame, the beauty of its object tarnished,
I return it to its prison,
Locking it in the closet
Of the doll house
In my heart.
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