On the balcony of our house in Bombay,
my mother grew dragons in pots. Their
shimmering heads emerged from dark soil,
wobbled on delicate necks, grew muscular,
breathed gusts of fire. Their scales were iridescent,
light shimmered in peacock folds on their backs.
Eventually, they smashed the pots with their tails,
their leathery wings opened and they flew
around the house, hovered above the balcony,
settled on the terrace. At night they slept
under my bed. One dragon had a tongue
of silver. One breathed gold. One scorched my
eyebrows when he laughed. One bit a hole
in my heart, planted a dragon seed, which
grew and grew. Now a baby dragon flicks
its tail between my shoulder-blades, between
the shadow and its whisper:
wings, wings
……………………………………………………….
(As always, Sunday is poetry day here on my Blog. If you feel moved to, please share your poems in the Comments. Let’s play and celebrate poetry together.)
