Stayed

morph-reaching

Morph didn’t die or get kidnapped
but minded how the Sentinel palmed him,
as if he were some souvenir store
mood stone, before Logan snikt him loose.
Like the cosmic cashier could care less
if you stole.

The attacks subsided. The government
changed. Everyday, most everyone saved.
Logan and Morph, both barely aged.
Juggernauts relented, but something sinister—

beast-wolverine-morph

No more morphing into friends, rogues
or beasts—but ever the changeling.
Morphing content. Morphing calm.
Morphing OK. Fine. At night,
becoming the well-made bed.
Before breakfast, filling the tub.

The attacks subsided. The government
changed. Everyday, most everyone saved.
Logan and Morph, both barely aged.
Apocalypse averted, but something sinister—

wolverine-morph

Logan greyed. Morph didn’t. Resented
how the future seemed to save itself,
resented himself, how he reflexively
reanimated apropos. “Oh, I dunno,”
when his parents had asked, “Kevin,
what do you want to be?”

No more attacks. No perceptible change.
Kevin & the Wolverine, friends barely in name.
The Sentinel scanned them: genetically same.
Swatted one, and the other—

***

Today’s poem was prompted by the question, “What is it like watching a person develop a personality? An infant to a baby for example or a close friend to a distant one.” I took to the second example, and having been ingesting a lot of X-Men lately, well, that’s that.

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