"Superman's Other Secret," by Bryan Dietrich
Superman's Other Secret
by Bryan Dietrich
It's strange, I suppose, to find myself spellbound,
in knots, as tongue-tied by her tossed locks
as the proverbial bad boy. Lassoed, trussed up
and forced to tell the truth under the influence
of that golden rope, doped. Lost in her main
means of defense, more shackled than she
by her mettle, those magic manacles. Unable
to dodge the bullets that, heartward, seem to hum.
Mostly, she avoids them. I just let them come.
I'm supposed to be taken, I know. Good guy,
steady as the morning star, faithful as that apple
pie Lois sometimes bakes me, a fine example....
But then there's two of me, as many (more?) of her.
Smart, savvy, strong enough to beat all she can't
bear. As beautiful as any stag she might have done
in, outrun, caught, antlers askance, standing
in the still. Goddess? Okay, demi, but born to shame
that lack of choice, Paradise, from which she sprang.
Woman of steel, mistress of the upper air,
she knows how each of us is always already
falling. Alone with her, I seem to understand
earth, its breath, better, the orgasm of ozone
that rushes out when she describes her own
flight. Even sitting-stratus, nimbostratus,
talking-I've watched her turn into it, dive,
ride it the way she does her stories, worries, cares.
The shape of the wind. What her world wears.
Me, I just point and leap, but not with her.
Some days I fear that I'm invisible as the plane
she doesn't need, a spectacle in a suit, uptight,
upright, perhaps too. Or that, though our colors clash
the same, hers cut closer to the breast. Even weaknesses ...
I fear mine are mine alone. No recurring villains,
no green rocks, a decided lack of chains. And though
we both could leap this difference, in fact much less,
there is a yaw yet, deep as regret, from farmboy to finesse.
by Bryan Dietrich
It's strange, I suppose, to find myself spellbound,
in knots, as tongue-tied by her tossed locks
as the proverbial bad boy. Lassoed, trussed up
and forced to tell the truth under the influence
of that golden rope, doped. Lost in her main
means of defense, more shackled than she
by her mettle, those magic manacles. Unable
to dodge the bullets that, heartward, seem to hum.
Mostly, she avoids them. I just let them come.
I'm supposed to be taken, I know. Good guy,
steady as the morning star, faithful as that apple
pie Lois sometimes bakes me, a fine example....
But then there's two of me, as many (more?) of her.
Smart, savvy, strong enough to beat all she can't
bear. As beautiful as any stag she might have done
in, outrun, caught, antlers askance, standing
in the still. Goddess? Okay, demi, but born to shame
that lack of choice, Paradise, from which she sprang.
Woman of steel, mistress of the upper air,
she knows how each of us is always already
falling. Alone with her, I seem to understand
earth, its breath, better, the orgasm of ozone
that rushes out when she describes her own
flight. Even sitting-stratus, nimbostratus,
talking-I've watched her turn into it, dive,
ride it the way she does her stories, worries, cares.
The shape of the wind. What her world wears.
Me, I just point and leap, but not with her.
Some days I fear that I'm invisible as the plane
she doesn't need, a spectacle in a suit, uptight,
upright, perhaps too. Or that, though our colors clash
the same, hers cut closer to the breast. Even weaknesses ...
I fear mine are mine alone. No recurring villains,
no green rocks, a decided lack of chains. And though
we both could leap this difference, in fact much less,
there is a yaw yet, deep as regret, from farmboy to finesse.