None of the heroes hold
up under
the light. They scurry
away, ratty tails exposed.

The dead ones
just lie
there unapologetic
and drained of all

blood. Red

as some overgrown
field of panic
grass, it’s too late
for prairie smoke

blooms. I never

thought I’d be burning
this one too. A photo
I tore up
then restored

with Scotch tape
a month later
when I was 10.
I did sink

in the deep end
of that motel pool
first before being taught
it was better

to float

on the surface. The damage
isn’t so easy to identify
at civil twilight. Deeply
flawed from start

to finish. A beautiful
scar across the cheek
faded too fast.
The heather on the hill

in the distance

is more perfect
if no one disturbs
those underwater logs
in the creek.

None of them.