My Life after Super Woman
Each night before I go to bed, I tell myself, Do not think of Super Woman. Hardly have I rested my head on the pillow then I think of her rising hips undulating beneath me. I think of her long, long legs. I think of the wind in her hair as she flies, and oh, how she flies. Do not think of that, I tell myself again. And again I think how we climbed the air together. How every level of heaven was our own. How she gathered me to a point. I became like a musical note going higher and higher than I could ever sing before. Do no think of her, oh please, do not think of her, oh please, please, I think again, and again I think how many others wanted her.
Me! They cried. Me, too. The longer she stayed with me, the more emphatic their words. They could hear our shouts and sobs of ecstasy, and were driven wild. This isn’t safe, I told her. This cannot last. You must leave. But I could never free myself from her strong, pink arms, her long black hair, her fragrance of sun and salt and sea. Me! I can still hear them cry. Come to me. They flung themselves at our door. They filled the streets below. They brought ropes to catch her with. And chains with locks and keys. And every kind of food and drink as lures. But she remained faithful to me. Only me. She waved happily to those fans but stayed just out of touch and reach. She didn’t mind that they licked their lips like hungry dogs. That they engraved her name and face, on their arms and thighs. But at a certain point their enthusiasm reached such a frightening peak. Oh, to be loved by Super Woman, to kiss her red, red cheeks. That became the global fantasy. That was when the hunting and fishing company, Gander Mountain, invented a human-sized butterfly net, especially designed, or so the ad claimed, to catch the super woman of your dreams.
We both knew what that meant. By then the search lights were regularly crossing our ceiling. Soon she would have to flee or die in a net. We huddled beneath our sheets. She had to leave mankind forever to his creepy longing and loneliness and laments. For this is the way of planet Earth. Men trap what is good and true and hold it like a hostage in their hairy hands until it breathes its last.
She was right to go then, of course and alas, because Super Woman is always right. Super Woman who fled. Super Woman who left me with all those horrible hands. Super Woman who said, just before she left, I will be back, love. I will be back for you and all that is true and good. But do not think of that. Whatever you do, do not obsess. Now all I do is yearn and ache and moan. Every wish I say and every yes is for Super Woman alone. Every page I write is written for her, my Super Woman, the love of my sleepless nights, my lost dreams, and last romantic gasp.
Nin Andrews is also the editor of a book of translations of the French poet Henri Michaux entitled Someone Wants to Steal My Name from Cleveland State University Press. She is the author of 5 chapbooks and 5 full length collections including Why They Grow Wings, Midlife Crisis with Dick and Jane, Sleeping with Houdini, The Book of Orgasms, and Southern Comfort.