The Prince Mourns His Love

Kissing the dragon good-night
three years ago, I was amused
to note it turned into a Princess.
Come alive, I sang, you’re
in the Pepsi Generation. She
was annoyed. A hundred years
in scales does the disposition
little good. She wanted not a song
but love. Love of a true Prince
had made her once again a Princess,
she maintained, and she was right.
I loved her. But I loved her
as the dragon she had been. I
was amused: the transformation
seemed unlikely to persist.
She raged. It made her mad
I loved the Princess less than
the enchanted dragon. She wished
the dragon’s death. Because
she was again a true Princess,
she had her wish. The dragon died.
Days spun by upon her flaxen wheel
while she wept because I loved her
for her truest self. Three times
from violets to varnished leaves,
three times the disenchantment
of her humbled generation. Come
alive no more. The brass green
fire of her furious eyes grew dim.
She died upon my kiss in disbelief.