by Anna Wythe
Origami dragons are appearing in the library.
They laugh at me,
at the ink signs I scratch for you.
I don’t ask how a paper dragon can breathe fire,
or whether the fire is its voice.
I want to steal one for you:
a red jewel.
I think of the Prince and the Swallow.
have anything left to say
if a bird could bring you my body
in bright shards?
I can speak only
an exquisite hunger.
My mouth opens:
this is the shape of its emptiness.
On Sundays, your mouth is full of God.
You give me a feast of silences.
I cannot give you even
this little red dragon
I shall set it on fire.
About the author:
Anna Wythe is a history student at Cambridge University. All the places she cares about are currently being destroyed by drought, floods or wildfire.