I keep my dragon on a string;
see it soaring up above?
It’s black and purple, a real sight in the sky,
yet from down here you’d think us balloon and fairground child.
I do not know how long the string is.
It’s always caught on something far above:
some days I can sway my hand as far as I want,
and others the line is taut and red hot.
Once I felt that mighty dragon
jerk so hard my feet skipped the ground.
I did not ask for this string, so carelessly bunny-ear’d around my wrist.
I did not ask to see the other end.
We are bonded, we are parasites.
Hear my dragon roar, I think to myself,
kicking off the dirt and brushing off my knees.
Hear that beast roar, I’ll say,
and I’ll bring that monster down to earth.
My dragon is a sword:
not Arthurian or chivalrous,
but in truth Damocles’.
A crown’s a heavy burden,
but its yoke is feathers to mass destruction.