~CHRIS
ELLIS~
FINDING
THE DRAGON
How silent the sea
sounds,
inland on this island, the
churlish
surge dampened outside
this ruined
plantation. I have
walked
a black track,
stringless,
no sealing wax, bearing
only
bananas, their yellow
smell ripe
in Caribbean air.
There,
where the asphalt bleeds
into sand, this is where I
was told
he would be. By the
sea,
some forgotten foundation,
an old groundskeeper's
cave,
limestone slabs tipped by
delinquent
papaya, feral coconuts
pressing
native palms for each acre
of sky. Migrant
warblers flip,
off bananaquits, winter
cousins
weaving
a dense mat of yucca-like
succulents,
quarreling
among snarls of stickery
vine.
There are eyes
watching, oddly
aqualine cabocons,
vertically slit.
That dead
bough might stir,
from some stray ray, sun
spangling
stripped bark into beaded
brown
leather, cold blood
warmed
on gold stone. I
might hear
that ancient gait, each
step
intent, and the serpentine
twist,
a long tail shushing
dry brush.
Maybe
see the saurian face,
dewlap unfurling
a masculine flag, the
meaty tongue's
pink flick, tasting,
tasting.
Obsidian ellipses slant
my landscape, touchstones
spiraling on updrafts.
I lob my last bit of banana
back at a vacant grove,
to some unseen iguana
lost among relics, deadfall
scattered under sentinel
stones
overthrown by the sweet
thrill of my summer
warblers, the sloe scent
of cherries.
© by Chris Ellis
