Chinese Fire Dragon

Sipping rose petal tea to go with my tattoo,
my heart meridian,
my right breast,
my 18-year-old who put it there.

Years later, my acupuncturist would chortle
“Yin too dry!”
and drum me with pulsing currents
through needles like wasp’s stings.

I’d imagine my bones crackling,
blood running like hot rum
and chocolate to my toes
while I gulped at the air.

Now a mouthful of roses
and sweet water,
cup after cup
will settle the fire.

The steam will lift
out the raw places
where the dragon once blazed
like hissing gold.