Wednesday, May 09, 2007


She was bewitching then. On
the windowsill she sat, an arm
across her dragon, gaze turned
from the caves and deserts of his face.
At her throat hung the gold bones
of a fish, and in her hair
a small companion floated, gave
the sun back to the room in spines.

Fingers whispering along the sash,
she looked at me, eyes a thin
mountain wind. I felt my heart
consumed in me by birds that ate
and soared away before she moved.
The dragon laid a cloud of smoke
across the table as she stepped
from his coils to cross the room.

“That was good,” she said. “Yum.”
Then she plucked out her eye,
put it gently in my hand.
I’ve kept it all these years.
I can see through it almost as if
it were my own. But it rattles in me
like a window in a dining room
when the guests have eaten and are gone.


Minx said...

Lamia was a very misunderstood witch. Poor Lamia!

pundy said...

Rather beautiful

Minx said...

Pund! You bugger. We have been worried sick.

L.M.Noonan said...

No doubt you've heard this many times over BUT some poets should be novelists and you are one of them. This poem made me want to read the story.

Debi said...

Oh! Pundy's here! That explains it ...

Minx said...

I imagine that since Pund found out that John doesn't look like Old Father Time, he has nipped over the pond to kill some animals, drink weedy beer and partake in other traditional Merkan pursuits.
You can send him back now, John, otherwise we are going to have to start the party all over again.

John said...