Don’t tell her the Lariat of Truth is a jump rope

in a fanny pack, neon pink from the ’80s. 

Let her climb the outside of the stairs, deflecting

unseen bullets with slap bracelets, a wide-eyed

wonder-woman scaling her grandmother’s porch

to fight the bad guys. Let her land

in that invisible jet when she jumps from the edge,

the scent of wild onion in her hair.