We Could Be Heroes

Today I yearn to
go back to the drawing board
where I spent summers sketching
heroes that could rescue me
from anything,
maybe even this feeling rooted in my gut,
a nemesis planted there by a vengeful sprite who
sprang from my split skull,
then slithered back inside to have the run of the place.

I am no Zeus, she no Athena,
but still I try to strike her down
with words like thunderbolts.

My daughters hear my curses,
shouted out loud and at myself,
and wonder if the words are meant for them.
Pencil in hand, sketchbook on lap,
I wonder if I can still conjure
the hero they are holding out for. Or,
will they have to rescue themselves?

If they do, I wonder
is that so terrible a fate?
For, isn’t our greatest struggle
against the dreams we dreamed of
ourselves that still hang drying on the vine
under Langston’s sun?
Isn’t every day a confrontation
with the dreams we defer
and defer and defer again,
until they are bombs hurled at us
through time
by the imps we used to be?

Isn’t every day a rescue mission
where we are both
the heroine and
the damsel in distress?

And when Peter Parker
pulls on his mask and
disarms assailants with
a joke first and
a punch in the teeth
only after that,
isn’t he also
fighting off the tears
of a boy who wasn’t
the right kind of strong,
who still isn’t,
but might be
someday?