Behind his reduced-glare lenses, I almost miss
his X-ray eyes as he passes. The solar flare slides
through the shadow of his gaze, erupts as laser
against the store windows. No one notices but me
and I lift my hand to ward off the glow.
He takes it as a wave and that’s okay.
He’s cute in that could-kill-me-with-a-glance
kind of way. But he might save me too,
if I could admit I wanted to be saved.
Beneath his faded shirt, the edges of his cape
look just like shoulder blades, windmilling at
the possibility of flight. He smiles as he nears,
a thousand-watt flash, a killer grin.
I bet he reads all the classics, ink-smudged
and silly-puttied. I bet he can shake a die
and tell a story. I bet his brain is too big
for this street, this world, this life. I bet he could
build me a house of legos, a land of imagination,
a planet of glass and copper. Everything should
be so shiny and clear.
He slows, or time does, concrete steps to meet and pass.
My hand could leave my pocket and reach across this divide.
My feet could untangle and put myself in his
trajectory around the moon.
It is hard to leave one’s orbit, the path of
least resistance. Going by, he lowers his gaze
from my face to the hollow box behind my breast plate.
The absence of light is the color of steel frames.
Spontaneous combustion would have been
an easier way to go.
This SuperGirl postcard has been one of my favorite pieces of mail this month. I’ve always wanted a super-secret identity, and I wonder who in this world does get to have one.