I worked way too long on this poem. Will take a second look at it tomorrow.
The First Beneath
Why do we speak to children as they sleep,
whispering our foolish dreams into their
too small ears?
My son is in his nocturne.
He goes where superheroes never sleep
because there are always battles to be won,
never lost. I look for him in the sound of his breathing,
watch his eyes flicker as he discovers secret worlds,
the first to fly beneath the moon. Always
his breath smells sweet of peanut butter.
By his bed lay a towel-cape and paper mask—
evidence his super identity is safe
Wherever he is he roams the dark unprotected,
never thinks about falling out of the sky.
I whisper on the rim of his ear, “come back soon,”
He tells me not to worry, he’ll be right back,
the message resting deeply on the tip of his tongue.