Glassfist,

the weirdest superhero
of all time,

broke his hands
on another villain’s face,

leaving the enemy shredded and wailing
and himself
crippled
yet again.

Back at Headquarters,
his snickering friends
in their capes and masks
watched
as he thrust his hands into the Superkiln
and refashioned them,
blowing shape back into each finger,
gloving them after they’d cooled.

“What, exactly, is the advantage
of this particular attribute?”
they asked him.  “You’re only good
for two shattering blows in any battle
and then we’ve got to save
your sorry ass.”

He smiled, didn’t answer,
but later in his lair
he pulled off the gloves
and his mask and stared into his palms —

so clean,
no trace of blood anywhere,
and his own honest face
staring back without needing
to blink back tears.