Superman Flies. Again.

    by Annmarie Lockhart

The first time he looked as though

he wouldn't live forever was after

his thorax had been sawn in two.

The pillow hugs absorbed the coughs,

the cringing gait braced the pain

for two weeks in the hospital while

the rest of us watched and waited.

Home then, to gain back the weight,

the strength, the will to don the cape

and fly again. But three days in

the wound screamed red and set the

fragile order to wobble as mother hid.

At 16 I became a nurse, a part I would play

and play again over time. I learned

to clean the gape of opened stitches,

to soothe the indignant swath of skin,

to hold infection at bay 'til Superman

was well enough to fly. Again.

© 2010 Annmarie Lockhart

Annmarie Lockhart is the founding editor of vox poetica, an online salon dedicated to bringing poetry into the every day. She has been reading and writing poetry since she could read and write. A lifelong Bergen County New Jersey resident, she lives and works two miles east of the hospital where she was born.