by Theresa Boyar
You were almost Superman
tipping over the world,
dragging me from the dark
forest of stars I'd called home
since I could remember.
My dumb Orpheus in your
tight blue pajamas
forever bent on what?
Rescuing me? I want to know:
from what? And what was the hurry?
Did you ever stop to think
I may have been happy where I was?
Did you ever think that what you called
your grand act of devotion
meant something entirely different to me?
You practiced your heroic pose,
already envisioning your lunge set in sculptor's marble,
and to me, if you’d have listened,
you would have known:
it only felt like falling.