I was green as a frog’s back.
Taste that puddled blood.
Touch it to your tongue.
I bled gold like a wounded dragon.

I was young and hungry.
At parties they fed me wine
till the faces whirled around me.
I poured words into the reek of smoke.

My empathy burbled up
like an artisian spring, pure
from the white stones of my
spine. Anyone could drink their fill.

Now age and experience have
toughened my skin to scales.
I mistrust easy tears as I scorn
pitches from Nigerian princes.

Am I better or worse? I still
weep for tortured puppies,
abandoned kids, raped women.
But I trust few enough to get drunk

in public. My lover watches
my back and I watch his.
Like a clam I open slowly
and only under safe waters.