Remember the moonless sky
in the rainy season.
You wait for the night
below the castle on the mountain.
Having tracked the monster
across continents,
you grip your silver crossbow
trembling, trembling
in fear and exhilaration.
Think of it.
Here you are.
The hero. The one.
Your name in uppercase.
The fire in your heart. The wind in your hair.
The women you will know.
This, this
is how it was meant to be.
All the sins of young men forgotten, forgiven.
Snakes trampled underfoot.
Tell me this is how it was.
You remember.
The painfully slow climb to the top,
the doors that swung open without a touch.
Your entry through the hall.
And standing before that huge stone fireplace
His face in the mirror—when he turned to glare
at you, through
what are, after all, your own eyes.
Perry L. Powell lives near Atlanta, Georgia with a rat terrier and a black cat. His work has appeared in Cattails, Eunoia Review, eyedrum periodically, Frogpond, Presence, Prune Juice, Ribbons, The Blue Unicorn, The Heron’s Nest, The Innisfree Poetry Journal and elsewhere.
