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.

People don’t realize how lonely
the super-life can be.
No one to cook dinner
or wash your clothes
and your costume always
in constant need.

They don’t see the bruises,
the scrapes, the scars.
All they hear are the cheers,
even when they’re hissing
beneath their breath
without an ounce of fear.

They’ve never watched you eat
alone without a mask,
microwaving burritos
that taste like plastic ash,
never knowing your tongue
never quite escaped Dimension MAX.

They’ve never had to wake up
in a strange lair
with an atom-splitting headache,
trussed upside-down,
smelling of their own vomit
and hardly able to breathe
through a blood-caked sea.

They’ve never had to devise
escapes from nefarious plots,
or learn to make bail
without a valid ID,
or bunk overnight
in an unmarked cell
while trying to ignore the tales
of the latest Kevlar Clarabell.

They’ve never had to look up
and feel the responsibility
of an entire city bearing down
while their ears rang
and their web-shooters ran dry
and the memory of their mother yelled,
Why can’t you ever once be on time?

They just don’t know what it’s like,
and even if you could,
you wouldn’t tell them —
not about the ramen noodle feasts
or washing your mask in the kitchen sink.
You’d let them think
you had a mansion uptown
and a girl from Models, Inc.

Because you are a super-hero
and without great power
what reason would you have
to believe our best intentions
are so much better than the greed
that is so often caught
betwixt the villainous webs

of you and me?