Sonnet for Shenron, Eternal Dragon of Earth
What I wouldn’t give to want to give. To sleep
my ropes of wishbody in the planet’s deep
until someone collects what calls me, through
mantle & impossible hot. To untangle & rise
for another’s eagerness. To feel fed by obliging.
Shenron, our many petty longings (youth, re-vigor,
lives scrubbed out like streaks of grease) must dapple
your tongue like sap-thick grapes — but. What of
those asks too big for even a dragon’s grant? Begged-at
by a boy cradling his father’s bug-rotten heart, you’d say
no. Because some griefs must bud. This I recognize.
Being so sure you can hustle fate down a different creek —
until you can’t. It is so human, Shenron, to be the age of a planet
& not admit we are so helpless to small, sick things.
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