I have been asked before

a million times

Who is your hero?

The first day of school

one year, and the next,

my teacher smiles

and places in front of me

the student survey with the

dreaded question—

And what do they expect me to say?

For me to recount the tale, perhaps,

of the man who had a dream;

or of the singer who was dragged away

from hers at twenty-two;

or of my parents, one of which had

driven me that morning,

drives me everyday;

And every single one

is an answer, and they're true—

but what even is a hero,

anyway?

Someone special?

Someone strong?

A role model;

someone with the superpower

to speak and be heard,

to make the difference?

As I walk my halting pace through life

I am surrounded by a forest of trees

that tower far above my four feet eleven inches

while I can only stand and marvel

at the sunlight filtering through the leaves,

crane my neck

to watch what I cannot reach;

The woman who hid her students in the cabinet

and took the bullet;

the stranger who told me she liked the pins

lining the side of my backpack;

the girl who stood and sang on a stge

having crawled out of the blackest Pit;

the stranger who tole me my mile time

was pretty good

and gave me a smile

that dragged me out of the ocean

my mind had become—

And those bullets, the bang-bang-bang of gunfire,

they spray without discrimination—

no hesitation, even for heroes;

But the trees are more bulletproof

than any titanium-gold alloy or metal suit;

I see the glint of red-white-and-blue

off a shield in my teacher's eyes, too;

And I can't think of anything more a superpower

than the way that new sprouts flourish

when the forest is singed clear

and the last dregs of smoke disappear

over the horizon.

There are 7.6 billion trees—

and each one of them

has grown at least one shiny leaf;

yes, even the ones burned and flaked by hatred—

And when I look up at the great

bullet-ridden canopy so high above,

my greatest wish is that,

though my height has remained the same

after one year, and the next,

I could grow that final inch

and make a leaf of my own

to shield those below

and drag them out of their oceans,

give them the seeds they need

to have their own dreams.

Our veins can catch like pulleys;

Like ticking clocks, they snare—

Hold your hands steady, now, love,

Machines require care.

Generously, carefully,

We oil our different parts;

They murmur of perfection

And metronome our hearts;

Others say, “I’m broken, proud,”

And tout their grinding gears;

Refuse to say, but clear as day

They’re pointing—“it hurts here.”

My darling, you remember

That bent, broken is not;

But my love, don’t you forget—

Don’t let yourself stay caught.

Cold concrete and chains clinking loud;

loud in an echoing room.

You pick up the fork and then set it down.

You know why you're here, don't you?

Blood on the tile, and violence feels good--

better, at least, than it likely should;

chains clink loud,

but they can't hold you down

when the pain pangs deep in your teeth.

Too much time living too much life

and you were only left so dissatisfied:

minutes like glaciers and years like a shot

and you watched the sand

trickle down,

slide,

stop.

You used to pray to God to give you a sign.

On death row, He's served you

a plate of cold spaghetti.

“One day?”

“Yes,” the man said. He didn’t even deign to take off his sunglasses. “Twenty-four hours, starting at sunset.”

Luis laughed as he wiped down the counter. The sun filtered at an angle through the windows, glinting off the bottles lined up behind him in his periphery; Melissa was goddamn obsessed with that shit, like aesthetics mattered in a dive like this. The bar wasn’t even technically open yet, but he was usually inclined to be generous, and this guy had looked like he desperately needed a drink and maybe a sandwich before he’d started going on about superpowers.

Luis was starting to regret letting him in.

“What’s so funny?”

Luis shook his head. “Man, you high or something? You expect me to believe that somehow, just like that--” he snapped his fingers-- “bam, I’m the Falcon. Because you said so.”

The guy grinned, a split-second flash of white teeth. He leaned back and raised his hands. “Sober, honest, just stating the facts. Whether you believe it or not, that’s up to you.”

Luis slapped the rag down and eyed him. Dressed in a crisp, gray wool blazer and a white button down, the guy, by all rights, should have looked like he belonged in a high-end law firm. Instead, his sartorial choices just looked strangely incongruous, like he was wearing someone else’s clothes; the sunglasses couldn’t hide the gaunt pallor of his jutting cheekbones, and Luis hadn’t missed the redness of raw skin when he’d raised his hands. His man had busted his knuckles recently, looked like, probably less than a week ago.

When Luis glanced back up at his face, his gaze met only the inscutable black lenses of those glasses. The ghost of a smirk quirked the man’s lips, drawing attention to a white scar that glanced across his chin and the edge of his mouth.

Yeah, he was one shady motherfucker.

“What’s in it for you?”

“I have something you want,” his guy said. “What does it matter?”

Luis crossed his arms. “I never said I was interested.”

That flash of a grin again. Luis’ spine prickled, uncomfortable.“You didn’t need to,” the man said.

They considered each other. Outside, a horn honked at the intersection. Luis shoved his hands in his pockets, his fingers lighting on a round plastic edge. He didn’t want to be the one to look away first, but the guy wasn’t giving one goddamn inch. He was still fucking smiling.

“Melissa’s coming in soon,” Luis finally said. “You’ve gotta go.”

The man shrugged. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll come back tomorrow.”

***

That night, Luis walked home on autopilot, the dark alleys and towering apartment buildings flashing by in half-remembered blurs. He checked his phone as he turned onto his street, the white light flashing blindingly into his eyes as the lock screen came on.

00:16, it read impassively. Tuesday, September 29.

Pain flared sharp in his lip, and he realized he’d been chewing it. Blood was a metallic tang on the back of his tongue. He looked up, blinking quickly into the night sky like a dark dome around him. He couldn’t afford a plane ticket.

The plastic coin in his pocket weighed barely anything, but it felt like it was boring a hole into his leg. He shoved his hand into his pocket and grasped it, pulling it out to sit in the palm of his hand.

He looked down at it.

Fuck it.

***

“You said I’d be able to fly. How fast?”

***

Luis stared down at the gravestone, jutting up neatly from the dry dirt. Weeds had overrun its base, crabgrass curling with sharp tendrils into the cracks of the aging stone. Someone had left flowers; tulips. She’d always liked roses best.

“Almost missed it this year,” he said. “I was sure I would.”

He glanced around, but there was no one else aside from the moon and the autumn silence. Headstones extended outwards in orderly rows around him, climbing up the hill in the distance in dull gray platoons. The moonlight cast dark, elongated shadows behind them. At his feet, her shadow touched the toes of his boots. In less than a hour, it would recede as the sun began to rise.

“I made a promise to you,” he said haltingly. “An ocean away, God gave me a way to keep it. That must mean something.”

He fingered the coin in his pocket before taking it out again. 6 MONTHS, it said, emblazoned on its plastic surface.

He closed his eyes. “I couldn’t have gotten here without you. You’d say it was all down to me, but-- nobody else pushed me like you did.” He grinned suddenly. “Sober, honest, just stating the facts.”

Luis sidled forward and placed the coin on the top edge of the gravestone, an innocuous little green circle. He didn’t need it anymore.

He turned away. It was the first day of October, and the night sky was beautiful tonight.

Progress is an ugly word.

Ill begotten, oft reversed,

Both well-earned and undeserved,

Something loved, but also spurned.

Progress means a new advance--

Some think that's to take a stand:

Do what you know others can't,

Work to stick it to the man.

Progress means a forward step--

Some think standing still is best:

Stubborn, sliding backwards yet

As the world moves nonetheless.

Progress is an ugly word--

Hated just because it hurts;

Each win takes at least one burn;

Being first means being learned.

Every man thinks he is right.

Progress, then, is hard to find;

But if you put your hand in mine,

We can walk, our steps aligned.