Yes, I am lucky; I’ll never have to die
on a treadmill, starve
myself into a cocktail dress. It doesn’t matter
if I wear a seatbelt or stare into the heart
of the sun (It’s just a dark lump, really).
That’s why I offer to cut onions, tackle
the wasp nests and ant hills
after I save Flash and Atom
from the latest Red Tornado rebellion.
I can’t know what it’s like on all fours, gagging
from the bleaches that won’t take
away the soy sauce stain no matter
how much grit and teeth-grinding
you put into the scrub pad.
When you woke up to your list of chores
scratched through and done, it wasn’t me
shitting on your values, your labor
omnia vincit motto that carried
you through grad school and carries you
to the broom closet or the Windex
when I grab my cape and promise you the world
won’t be torn apart by War-
world or reformed by Luther
and his Kryptonite schemes. But my promises can’t
be prophecies, darling.
That’s the one power I’ve never had.