Death of a Super Hero By Lanette Cadle
_________________ She didn’t die so much as ceased to matter. Her costume dwindled to a few rags and spangles and she didn’t leap tall buildings with the same joie de vivre as she did before the muttering, the who does she think she is, Superman? Batman? She needs to get a life, something she thought she had but was mistaken. She takes the bus to crime scenes now, arriving late, her hair sparking flame until she is asked to take notes for the coroner or fetch coffee, and when noticed at all it’s always Who’s the gal with the mazumbas? Boy, would I like to bang on her maracas. Super-‐‑hearing can be a curse. Lately, she uses her x-‐‑ray vision to avoid crowds. Her superfriends retired their tights to be teachers, housewives, and nurses, not that there’s anything wrong with that, but it must be hard to do all the dishes by hand and not rock the cradle from across this room. So she heats coffee with her heat ray and invisibly slips paper clues into pockets.
Yellow Chair Review 29