Of all Superman’s amazing powers—
Batman’s brain, the Flash’s footspeed,
the strength of Thor & the Thing put
together, & best of all that really cute
lock of dark hair flopping just so
on his forehead—the one I envied most
in those decidedly earthbound years
of my early adolescence was his capacity
for flight, & more than that how he flew,
no clanky suit like Iron Man or prodigious
leaps like the Hulk or even wings flapping
like the X-Men’s Angel. Superman simply
looked up at the sky and rose into it,
making gravity inapplicable to himself,
his only accommodation to the laws
of physics flying in a prone and therefore
aerodynamic stance, slicing through the air
with his outstretched hands like the blades
of a knife, seeing every detail below
with the sharp eyes of a peregrine falcon,
scanning not for prey but for anyone needing
saving. Many nights I dreamed of standing
on the edge of some precipice, the earth
crumbling at my feet & about to swallow me
up, & here he would come swooping down,
snatching me from the jaws of certain death
& in an instant the two of us would be off
for a spin around the planet, my hand
resting lightly on his forearm, the wind
in our faces & the whole world laid out
just for us, Lois Lane nowhere in sight.