My cousin said they could sew
children’s mouths with blue needles.
Some kids called them snake doctors, with power
to raise a dead copperhead to life,
or write your name on their air. As my secrets grew,
I became better instructed concerning dragons
and the bright colors of their wheels. In Japan
a woman taught me they were friendly,
killing pests, appeasing ghosts. When she lost
her child to firebombs, the sharp-eyed skimmers
drew her to water salted with stars.
Above the shut faces of wars and pond lilies
we prayed for the baby and ate our rice.
We saw the nymph’s skin split from a force inside,
a fresh thing hardening, full of new shadow,
like cooling glass. I came as close
to them one other time.
Therefore I never ask for too much
from the double-winged doctors—
a mouth ripped open, new words
for smoke, for sorrow.