Hemming Xartan’s Cape

If the alien invasion is to come off
by 7 p.m. Friday night, eons of silver

stuff with black stars must flow
with rocket-fueled speed through

these hands and under this presser
foot–I, the darkling accomplice must bend

a stellar curve straight, seamed
without a single cut in case the next kid

cast to lead the alien hoard is taller.
Goggled minions, small lisping ones,

with glasses and moustaches, will be
vanquished before their human

parents in a slow motion fight, will fall
“bam!” and “pow!” will be dragged

moaning gently offstage. Xartan, too,
“whammo!” will take a slow arcing

punch, the cape will flutter defiantly
down, subject to gravity and stage

directions, but he won’t trip off cue
thanks to me–piloting this vessel,

the breath-warm Viking, its whir, plunge,
and little lights, into the perilous night.