Nin Andrews

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.