It was an ordinary night when I was asked by my oldest

to tell him the tale of a hero.

His brother chimed in, all giggles and grins

“A story!” Settling into his pillow.

I started with Marvel’s well-known adventures,

thinking these were the tales that they’d like.

But Batman and Hulk and Thor with his cloak

had them sighing and rolling their eyes.

“No mom, a real tale, like the ones from the myths,

the ones with the dragons and monsters.”

“A myth!” I proclaimed, “Such a great choice!”

Then regaled them with all I could conjure.

I told them the story of Eros and Psyche,

how forbidden love passed the test.

How Zeus and Apollo worked against Eros’ mother

to help his tired pregnant wife get some rest.

I told them of Loki, the scoundrel and helper,

why Thor’s hammer’s shaft is so short.

“A fly!” They guffawed as they laughed through their bellies

“Oh no! That poor bitten dwarf!”  

I told them of Kali, the dark goddess destroyer

Her anger, eternal and fierce.

Raptured, I had them, as they learned of her battles,

her beauty, her hunger unpierced.

We talked of the Greeks, the Romans, the Hindu.

We talked of the Germanic tribes.

The lesson of Gilgamesh, his seeking of life,

his grief when Enkidu died.

We spoke of the tricksters-of Raven and Crow,

and even Anansi the Spider.

They now know how Maui pulled land from the sea

and beat the sun so the days would be wider.

I explained the story of Ivan,

the prince with the warrioress wife.

How he set free Koschei the Deathless

and this nearly cost him her life.

I realized when I was yapping about Baba,

the witch with the chicken leg hut,

my two boys were out, dreaming tales of their own,

but their limbs held me fast, I was stuck.

Resigned to my fate, I stayed where I was

and started to drift off to sleep.

Then my youngest asked softly, in earnest so tender

“Mom, can we get one of Apollo’s gold sheep?”