the story begins
(of course)
with leaving the known

the further away the better
find somewhere
your actions
feel real to you
again

the middle of the story
(notoriously problematic)
is likely missing a little mortal peril

how else can you prove
you are a self?
more than a self
a chosen
one
with something great to overcome
and shield and stone
(brought down hard
upon the soft head
of an enemy)
are better than lying prone
on the couch
talking about your mother

but do not forget the rules:
Hamartia
Hubris
check your genre
there are no real Heroes without
Tragedy
(do not panic,
it is often collateral)
inconsequentials may need to be
Heroically
cleared from the path:
flora
fauna
othered people

be sure you have top billing
the Hero’s story
is unforgiving to the likes of
Worker Two
two lines of dialogue
killed in act two
(their life’s work destroyed too
but there is no time to detail this,
besides it is hardly relevant)

the story ends when you
(triumphantly)
return home

for there is nothing worth
writing about there

but

how joyous can homecoming be
when it is a homecoming to inferiority?

what do they
(the masses)
know of great deeds
and their necessity?

you have been gone so long
that all we know is your name

you have assumed
everything will be the same

home

suspended snow globe
awaiting the stimulus of
your action

waving outstretched arms
to embrace you
who have not done the daily steady work
of care
who have not planted and tended
and mended the roof
each spring
or sat listening
to what ails and joys
growing old brings

did you think life would pick up
right where you left us?

it is a shock to find we have
continued

heroes are not good at holding
onto things
or people
they skim like thrown stones

sink a moment

wipe the dragon’s blood from your blade
once again, the nation has been saved!

from other blooded lives
(and their pups)

resolution
stability
we know
you have always chafed at
the indignity
of ordinary

but

sit a moment by this stream
watch the bird-bodied backs
of our children
contract
with the impossibility of
resisting laughter
as they throw themselves over
a held rope and into our cool fresh pool
the way our bodies only can
when we are young and loose-boned

and watch her
with calloused fingers
combing through her sister’s hair
as they have done since
they were children too
lifting each strand gently from
her bowed head and fixing it
just how she likes
just to see her delight
and the deeper satisfaction
of another’s hands upon your head
with no agenda

watch
that sun sinking low
scattering light
across the sea’s surface
and
if you squint
the cresting tail of a whale
can sometimes be seen
water sheeting pristinely
around the brief baring
of its lively
song-buoyed body

and the patience of that old man
sitting on the sand
with hand outstretched to a crow
he knows
who knows him
after years of patient evening greetings
sharing food and eventually gifts
beads, buttons, coins,
laid into careful art

watch that crow now lift into the darkening sky
looping back and back
and come with us to tuck our people in
share a tipple of gin or kiss the forehead of
our friend’s new child
leave a light on
for those who find the dark too hard
pause to ask
what are you reading?
what have you seen today?
we listen to what they say
and lie our bodies as close to
those we love
as we can

if this is not enough
do not worry
there is always another beast
to be slain

I am sure we will call
upon your like
again

[Editor’s Note: Publication of this poem was made possible by a donation from Kewayne Wadley during our annual Fund Drive.]