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Sara Fitzpatrick Comito is originally from Massachusetts but now lives in Fort Myers, Florida. There she farms a square city lot with her stonemason husband and 11-year-old son. Her poetry has been seen recently in A-Minor Magazine,, and Thrush Poetry Journal. She edits the online journal Orion headless and blogs at


Who, hero? 
beknighted, sword under the throat of the chaoskampf, you should 
be wishing to have had a haircut, retinally seared as you will be in 
this finality. The dream as a little girl, rolling helpless into the gabled 
corners, some gravity that’s not down but away – that’s you, too 
you’ll have lost the always towardness you think you can handle 
hilt belies the screech of wavering steel formless except for directed   
attention. Thrust, and with an absent target fall bronzed for appropriation 
curated and displayed with no credit, no identifying plaque. See it 
through though I might forget to dust as I forget to wring my hands 
this widow’s walked and it was before you strode in. Is anything forged 
anymore? where, the smiths? metallurgy gone the way of the gold spinners 
the orange glow gone from the hammer, the steaming plunge of the shoe a 
worn archetype but guard against its falling on your way out the door. 
The shoe, I mean. Yours are just outside.