Heroes

He told us it was lion's fur, cut from Hercules' wrap,
Then lift us, one by one, to the golden cushions:
I would stroke the chair arms and pet it like a cat.

Every summer we would beg to visit him--
My bachelor uncle whose polished townhome
Concealed a mythic garden, gated, dim.

Rimmed with shaded, dark, damp stone
Dredged, he said, from the Styx itself, when
Those chill waters widened at the fall of Rome.

His pavers were from Oz and his decorative glass
Was emerald shaved so thin that sunbeams sliced
Themselves into shafts stored behind the hydrangeas.

He was a hero--and I believed in his swords
Crossed at the back, above a trickling fountain
Had cleft monsters, until he broke that world.

He told us it was girls' fault unicorns were dead
That no virgins then were left to care for them
Did I know boyfriends killed many a princess's pet?

He told of the princes who, finding horns, cried
And my cousin punched me hard in the arm
For all the magic and the beasts who died.

For any uncles unintentionally slandered, forgive me. I mean no disrespect and based this on no uncle of mine. It was, shall we say, inspired more by the family politic than the family personal. Sharing with The Sunday Muse and Poets United.

-- Chrissa