Judy Kaber

IN THE NIGHT I BECOME SUPERMAN

My body turns, grows, gushes
strength, maleness. Muscles

bulge. I find myself fine
as silk beneath the night clothes.

Ready to straighten the world,
to repair it the way you might

a broken clock. I leap
tall locomotives, speed

down the throat of the sky,
gulp air and blow incandescent

sunshine. As the sun rises
I slip into a phone booth,

switch into the sheen of
female, click of heels, paste

of make-up. I won’t admit
to anyone my evening jaunts,

the ease of lifting bulging
men, carrying them to

chains and chagrin, to
rectitude and sorrow. Smell

the aroma of power. Each
breath I take I feel it

in me—torch-pure, gritty
—the red, the blue, the S.