A Quarterly Journal of Contemporary English Language Haibun
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March 2007, vol 3 no 1

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Sharon Trevelyan Dean

Here Be Dragons

I remember him standing outside my parents' house, handing me a thin scrap of notebook paper. The poem was called Sorry and I could tell that he was but I shut the kitchen door and watched him walk away. I slipped the poem between the pages of a book about dragons. For twenty years I imagined their fiery breath and glinting talons protecting his tender words from my unforgiving heart. Opening the poem I notice dark scorch-like stains, threadlike splits in the creases of the page.

a wisp of smoke
from the cave's mouth
autumn chill