When my glasses arrived in eighth grade,
I thought I was going to be the female version
of Clark Kent. Everyone would know
that behind the thick lenses
I was really a super hero
but no one would say it.
They would all secretly hope I would
take them flying, save them from
playground bullies, rescue their
cats from trees, turn the world backwards
to their starting places, before they’d
broke their skin
cried in public
been born to the family they were in.
No one ever cried save me.
No one ever looked at me in plea.
I was scary. All those hidden powers,
the way I knew their secrets as though
I’d overheard them through the walls.
The coveted cloak, the way my feet
may or may not have touched the carpet.
I put my glasses back into their case.
To even the score, to put me back
on earth level, to make it so they could
see me without my disguise of normal.
But it was too late. Everyone knew me.
I walked down the hall every day
without my super-secret glasses
I never could recognize the dangers.
Image taken with iPhone during the Seattle Underground Tour.
Words written at JewelBox with sun.
Time Taken 6 minutes.
Brain on science fiction, plots, storytelling
note: All poems for the month of April are memoir poems in the form of lists