Last Days


His chest is dimpled and tender from all those bullets,
his feet too swollen to fit his red boots. 

When the old nurse comes for his massage,
he closes his eyes so not to see the dust mites
in her hair.  Remembers Kansas,
twelve years old, flying over the green and yellow fields,
or coming home under a half moon, the spikes of corn  
like bristles on a brush. 
                                  The nurse finishes,
helps him into his pjs, rolls him out
to an ornamental pond.  He can see
colors we can’t — a violet moss edges
the underside of oak bark, rust colored carp
pull lavender wakes. 
                       He can hear mewing underground,
kit fox cubs in a burrow across the pond. 

Superman has never seen his own blood,
can’t remember his mother’s face, still grieves
for Lois. He’s anxious 
for the mother fox to come home,
hears his name spoken once
light years away.  Kal-El.