They said I couldn’t be a real
superhero because my breasts
were too small and unperky.
I could never fit the required
uniform, and my hip-to-waist
ratio didn’t conform to the fever
pitch of the modern fan-boy’s
favorite four-color dreams
(not to mention that my lips
are neither thick nor pouty
and will never be either
bee-stung or ruby-red
like a certain Amazon queen’s).
“But I can fly,” I said, quietly,
not quite in quiet unburning tears.
And they said, “So can birds
and planes and neo-Nazi Zeppelins.
It’s not the power that matters,
but the presentation, the package —
You gotta be able to sell it. Look,
get a day job, save some dough,
and get some work done. Maybe —
Next time — Who knows?”
And all I could think
(as I flew over the city
like a double-fisted arrow
with cheekbones so dull
and flaccid they felt like erasers
that had been clapped too hard
one too many spring afternoons)
was that I’ll know —
I will always know.
About Jack Vian
