Every night he reaches for me
in his sleep, clutches my arm,
tests the strength of the limb
before he walks out onto the bough,
tries to pull me into his dream
before the earth falls from below him.
I watch him kick from beneath
the weighted blanket, shadows
of his action figures and comic book
memorabilia projected across his face,
and wonder who we’re fighting down there,
what shape the villain stitched together
of so many waking anxieties has taken,
and what super powers, I possess
when his nightmares demand a sidekick.
I don’t know much about the multiverses
spiderverses, extended Marvel Worlds,
whose tights my thighs could fill,
or what weapon he believes, my noodly
arms could wield. Maybe it's the 1960s
Batman, a world where knowledge of
camp, ironic self-awareness, and rapid
fire puns could serve me in a fight.
With a Pow! and a Bam! and a Biff!
our technicolor punches defeat
the henchmen, and we dance the
Batusi in the Dutch angle.
Or maybe he knows I’m a pacifist
useless in combat, and it’s him alone
in his innermost cave. My body is
an anchor in the material world
a grappling hook clutching
the mattress as he descends
into the depths of the unconscious
my arm, a line of rope that spirals
infinitely long, a tube attached to
the ship, pumping oxygen.
I stay awake, watching,
waiting for the signal
to reel him back in.