Superman And His Brothers Visit Ossuary, New York Poem by David Kowalczyk

A sour dream lifts me from bed
at 4 a.m. I rummage through the attic
looking for something I know not what
in the cluttered drawers of a dusty walnut
dresser I find a gray-and-white photograph.
On the back, a faded scrawl: 1946/
Despite the ripped and torn edges that
have blossomed into a fiendish ecru,
it could have been taken today.


Four men are standing beside a virgin
Buick. Sunlight sparkles from the chrome,
reflected in their faces and in their chests,
swollen as a drunken rooster's.
They are matadors after the kill, disguised
by suits of Puritan gray and feathered fedoras.
They are strange and strong, daring and defiant,
powerful with pride.


The arir is electric, filled with tiny golden stars.
This magical chariot has erased their history.
They are no longer poor farmers.
They are no longer mortal.
Olympus never knew such gods.