her wings

The monster is tres cool, uber beautiful
in moist black leather, as large as an
elephant, with four legs, firm flesh,
a dragon’s tail and grace. I do not know

whether to be afraid. It does not seem vicious
or vile. There is no stench of stagnant drains
or carrion. It smells of haemoglobin. Cambium.
Of still air among leaves.

I am standing at its left side.
Its broad wings are raised.
Upon its thorax, behind its forelegs,
level with my eyes,

I lay my right palm, fingers
pointing at the tremendous
shoulder, feeling the insistence
of a big bass heart.

The monster’s blood is warm,
but cooler than mine. Her name
is Creativity. She holds her wings
high, tenting me while I touch.

From A coat of ashes