there’s the clatter of my sword
on the driveway, followed by a fat silence
as two warm trails converge
into one glossy, livid, fire-engine red
path that tumbles down my lips and chin and neck and
gets clamped hard
between my fingers, still oozing slowly.
he is pale and startled. in his hand rests
a broomstick – a makeshift
lightsaber today, magic staff tomorrow,
and the current weapon in question.
fiddleheads of paint are peeling from the handle.
there is shame in his face, but I am awed.
soon he props a bag of ice against my nose,
telling me that we can pretend
I survived an alien invasion,
Empire attack, and meteor shower
all at once.
you got the wound to prove it, he says,
and you are a hero!
ten years pass and I can’t pick a pair
of glasses that fit quite right – they’re always
cocked a notch to the left –
but things are never what they seem,
and I wonder if he knows
the gravity of how he shaped the way I see.
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