Joanne Limburg envies Heroes' Sylar and Elle

Sylar and Elle  
 
 
Into the midst of things more real
and personal, creep Sylar and Elle.
She is shaking with grief and rage;
he wants to know if he can feel
 
for someone else, he covets pain.
So he approaches her, this girl
whose father he scalped some episodes back,
and she cries You! and zaps him. And again.
 
I’ll kill you! Zap! She hurls blue lightning
from her palms, it hits him dead
in the chest, and he falls back, his arms
spread wide, a T-shaped allusion to something –
 
make that ‘someone’ –  the viewers know,
and maybe love, and maybe pray to.
Then, in case you hadn’t got it,
he gets up.  He has no wounds to show
 
but he looks chastened, and his shirt’s
in charcoaled tatters. I understand,
he coos. You hate me. Let me have it:
I can take it.  She slings her hurts
 
again. Again. The shirt is gone
completely. His body twitches back
to life, as we expect. He’s keeping
calm. He’s kept his trousers on.
 
Elle’s given up, she’s emptied
of her hate.  His work complete,
Sylar crawls to her, the blue
sparks in his hands, all mended,
 
and they laugh. I never want
the scene to end, but it must.
I want to do what Elle does, give it
all to Sylar, but I can’t.
 
 
 
*Joanne Limburg has published two books of poetry with Bloodaxe, Femenismo (2000) and Paraphernalia (2007), which was a PBS Recommendation. The Woman Who Thought Too Much, a memoir about anxiety, OCD and poetry, came out last year.

This poem first appeared in Poetry Salzburg Review last year.

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