a poem a day for a year #121

by Amy Turn Sharp


when we were kids
we played Robin Hood in the forest behind my house
before Star Wars muddied our myths
before the 80's made us want to be sexy private investigators
you were always Robin
and I alternated between
your sweet fair Marian
and the fat Tuck
I have always been a method actor

we made wooden bows and stick arrows
and cut ourselves with my fathers knives
the blood fresh like food on the green leaves
on the moss
we never cried though
we were hard against the woodland fortress

inside our crude lean-to
we would talk about good vs. evil
about fate
and the neighborhood bully
drink Tang
sing songs that children don't sing anymore
make promises

and I hear that you are not well now
that your invincible skin fell to the forest floor
and it does not seem just
and it does not seem fair
you live in a safe lincoln green memory
because we were just merry men
because we were just heros
safe outlaws
in my own backyard