a white romper, naked shoulders, lace spaghetti straps.
Her tiara necklace jingles, and I like, Pavlov’s dog,
starving, my mouth a lake, swallow in response.
She I can assemble, from my vast pornographic collage:
Amazons; mannequins; and chopstick-prodded nyotaimori models,
nipples hidden by scallop shells as businessmen snatch fish
from refrigerated flesh, so her daughter’s voice
startled my gaze to her sunbathed cheeks. Inked upon her T-shirt,
bold words fading: “I am a girl. So, what’s your superpower?”
“One day,” she said, “I will be President. Like Hillary,
I am no robot. I am human. My too-happy laughter is fine.”
Her mother’s smile testifies a recipe of certainty and pride,
and ashamed I realize the hands holding Supergirl down are mine.