Boy Dismantling a Superhero


        for Chance Castro
As a kid, I wondered if God took his coffee black

and at least four times a day.  My father did. And I


wonder, what’s the God-equivalent to catching

your father using the ring of a mug to tattoo landscape


designs on your mother’s table cloth? I wondered if God

had a front yard. I wondered if anyone has ever dropped


eaves on God, the way I did and overheard my father tell

my mother they were going to lose the house at the end


of the month. Does God know who Bret “Hitman” Hart is?

Because that’s the closest thing I knew of a superhero, and


at night, I’d throw on my dollar store sunglasses wrapped in

tin foil, the closest thing I had to mirrored shades, and wrung


the necks of my pillows. I wondered if God would chant

with the crowd as they called for the sharpshooter. When


I left nasty boy confounded on the floor, I wondered

if God had retirement and could borrow against it


to keep the house and landscape plans in full swing. I

understood superheroes to have the ability to identify


the weak spots on monsters, and what substance would

cripple evil. My father said snapdragons depend on


honeybees to make their red and yellow tongues grow.

This felt like knowledge worth remembering.

Aaron Reeder writes from Albuquerque and holds an MFA in Poetry from University of New Mexico. He is a recipient of the Rudolfo Anaya Fellowship, and his poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Washington Square Review, Superstition Review, Literary Orphans, Pittsburgh Poetry Review, Apeiron Review, Kudzu House Quarterly, Bitter Oleander, Black Tongue Review, The Great American Literary Magazine, and others. He is the author of the chapbook, DAWN (Orange Monkey Publishing, 2015).