The wing-backed blue chair is my castle, she says.
The floor is full of lava, so step lightly.
She whispers, fingers at her lips: the dragon
Around the corner is asleep. He’s napping
                        Now and that means we should leave.

His feather-heavy wings are the same blue
As the chair. Quietly, we leave the room
Like dancers in a Degas painting, waiting
There for our cue. She nods to me, her feet
                        A pointed pair of arrows.

She sets the table and makes meals from air,
Then shares it all with me, not stopping until
I’m full. She doesn’t know it’s the best thing
I’ve tasted in weeks—nor has she yet known
                        The gnaw of other hungers.

The pavement outside is on fire, melting
In inky slivers, so we tap-dance on
The tar and take our refuge on a rock
Where—last time—she received a scar. But now,
                        It will become her kingdom.

Announcing her true majesty, the bluebird
Picks up his song, and pale evening light halos
Her head. And all the living and the dead
Cry out. The angels rise from dust and shadow,
                       And she inherits the earth.