After Hua Long Dian Jing

I  Then
If you must know: the key to dragon-making lies
in the paint you use. You see: it must be heavy
enough to withstand the typhoons of the South,
yet light enough to ride the East’s measured breaths.

II  Now
From my mother, I’ve inherited
dark eyes, nimble knuckles, and from my father—
sometimes,
I think,
a thirst
for air.

III  Then
Recall: a dragon has no use for wings,
and in that sense, it is like the opposite
of a flightless bird.
Recall: when he tells you this joke
that I was the one who taught it to him.

IV  Now
When I was too young to understand,
I was still old enough to dream—
while the other children gorged
on tales of wild storks—
that I might have been conceived
with a drop
of paint.

V  Then
When you get there, ask him if he remembers: that night years ago, when the power went out,
and we let loose our dragon by the sun of a thousand fireflies. Ask him if he remembers:
how I turned, and the breath left his lungs, and we held each other—he, trembling
in my arms, pale as a ghost. And when you return, ask me if I remember: how I
turned and gleaned terror where there was only desire, how we held
each other, that night years ago, but he was already gone—
for it was not the key to dragon-making that held him
in thrall, but what it might finally mean
to fly.

VI  Now
You see: it was only a matter
of dotting the eyes—

VII  After
And yes, oh, yes—
of time, too.