MAIDEN'S DREAMS
Do I want a knight, fresh from dragon slaying,
Weapon rusted with the ruddy flakes of unwiped serpent's blood?
(I imagine the steaming wound,
Blistering bubblets dripping to the stones,
Incarnadined ooze, blotting scales that glister green and azure--
The monster curvingcoilingarchingfalling,
A 7.8 shudder on the Richter scale.
Empurpled fleshly eye-ridges
Half-covering lapis-lazuli convexities
That saw the danger of the flashing sword too late.)
No!Æ I'm sure I do not want an armoured hero
Who makes his reputation wrecking reptiles.
Mind you, I'm not a bleeding heart for dragons,
Not like some of your craven border tourists
Who pity bulls and spurn the matadors.
It's just that those macho Hemingway conqueror types
Too often see a woman as adversary--
She is the prey and they are oh, so eager
To thrust their swords and draw a little blood.
"So what if it's maiden's blood," they say, "no matter.
A woman's not a woman 'til she's pricked."
Then off they go to fight another foe,
Or prick another maiden to the quick.
(I keep my eyes open for the flashing sword myself.)
Perhaps I cerebrate too much.
Perhaps I lack excitement.
But I'd really rather have a gentle plowman--
A visionary Piers who smells of sweat
And soil, and fresh-cut grass and summer apples.
A man who plows his fields with steady sameness,
Season on season nurturing pale green buds
To bring forth bread from earth and grapes for wine.
Though with the government subsidizing farmers not to plant,
I doubt there's any Piers around today.
Perhaps I'll settle for a CPA. |
