Poetry | September 01, 1997
The Empire Strikes Back
Pamela Greenberg
On a bucket outside the Saint Nowhere feed barn,
cold, stolen apple juice dribbling down my chin,
I looked out toward the madrones along the coast.
Above my head hung a starfish and lucky
horseshoe and a stencil of a ram.
When the sun dulled orange and green,
I ducked into the theater down the street.
Han Solo, my idol, was frozen in a pit:
invulnerable, brazen, closed. I wanted
to kiss him; I wanted to be him; I couldn’t tell.
Afterwards, pedaling my dirt bike home
I pulled daredevil wheelies in the road,
jumped over stones and gulches and farmland.
When I got back my pants were muddy,
my skin luminous with a newfound glow.
Now, the selfsame myth of the invincible
keeps me most nights alone. And I am rent
with a gnostic’s nostalgia, glum elbows
under my chin. Back then I was so tough,
I could brave even the most inclement weather;
so young, I was not torn apart by awe.
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