GRIEF Poem: Dragons Don’t Get Cancer, by Allison Price

Maybe next time, I should get a dragon.
An immortal being
that shoots fire
and spreads its wings across the sky.

I could sit on its back,
guiding it over skyscrapers
and watching people
take in the shining emerald scales of my pet.

But there would be something missing.
The memory of a life spent on the ground;
a hole inside me that will not close.

The dragon may smile and soar through the air;
it may take me to wondrous cities in the clouds.
But when playing fetch, the stick would ignite,
and its scales would never be as soft as fur.

That memory of a life on the ground would linger,
of fetching balls for hours on end,
of excited jumping and face-licking when I reached home,
of cuddling against each other as the TV plays in the background,
of you howling, trying to speak after I told you I loved you,
of sitting down and petting a gorgeous, happy, fluffy beast.
The memory of you.

Dragons live forever
and dragons don’t get cancer,
but given the choice between you and a dragon,
I’d still pick you.

Maybe instead of a dragon,
I wish I had you back,
only maybe with wings,
and definitely without cancer.

Even though you’re not a dragon,
and you didn’t live forever,
that’s how long I will love you.