Carl Newlen

The Hunt

- July 10, 2009, 3:37 pm | Dragon Song

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Near the river that backed
against the rocks,
where the kindred bones
of ancient animals
piled randomly beautiful,
the dragon lived.

The names of things
were negligent there:
rock,
bone,
river.
And still the wind
made everything
seem alive.

The lair -- a cave
opening downward,
muffling the sounds
of water flow.
The tunnel narrowed
at the den,
only the head exposed
to attack.
In this lowest chamber
it lay sleeping
on a bed of gold.

It was there, in torchlight,
I raised the sword,
which would certainly split
the rock beneath its head,
fill its crevice
with blood,
the dragon`s blood.

But it startled,
and the eyes that opened
were weak, alabaster
where I imagined crimson.
In them I stood poised,
confident.

Against my legs
its breath felt moist,
sweetly warm,
and in the darken light,
the skin florid, supple,
unlike the crude lizard-beast
I envisioned
in my most heroic dream.

As the face turned to mine,
a face I knew was fair,
I did nothing.
Between two uneasy worlds,
between creature and creature,
my mind heavy with choice,
I found no strength.

The eyes closed,
its neck softened,
and without deception,
it returned to sleep.

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