Through a shattering of light,

a mermaid knuckles out to say

goodbye. Flaps her eel-black fin.

A wishing tree dangles its microphone

limbs, listening. I’m six, swinging

my foam sword like a primitive truth.

This is what the heroes do.

There’s a dragon! Swish! A griffin!

Swish! A hippogriff! Swish!

Killin’. Killin’. Killin’.

I’m not supposed to use that word—

but the heroes do. A questing

beast telescopes its snake-neck.

An ostentation of peacocks shivers.

I slice them up like flapjacks.

In the books I read, our world is teeming

with magic. Dads have swords

with names. Moms can bleed

away the lightning. I know things

they say I’m not supposed to.

My best friend Brayden said

he saw a talking head—a real one—

that told him the world is on fire.

Maybe that’s why my parents look

afraid. I’m wading through the backyard

jungle, leaves crumbling like bones

beneath my Nikes. The dry ones

squeak. The wet ones smell like death.

A gauntlet of tree trunks finally opens up.

Across a black, volcanic street, I see

Bigfoot glance over his shoulder,

wearing flame-retardant pants.

He doesn’t wave.

With my sword, I slice a hole in the canopy.

Nothing but me is invincible.

The hacked-off leaves fall down

like eyelids. The forest crackles & howls.

I run right through it, a dynamite stick.

I run just like a hero.