Wonder Woman

Maybe I seemed like her to you, son,
when we were both young
and I could kiss away each ouch
or hold you till my blouse
absorbed your tears. Or the time
I yelled at Hells Angels zooming
down our block where your Big Wheel
sometimes rolled into the road
and your wide-eyed wonder when
they slowed and one said,
“Sorry, ma’am.” Maybe it seemed
I could always protect you.
 
Maybe we both believed it—or wanted to—
back when money was low and there was
no dad around. When your patched eye
was a target for schoolyard bullies.
So how could I even pretend
to be appalled when the principal
called me in to say you’d incited a riot
in first grade when the teacher picked on
your friend Carlos for no reason?
How could I not be proud
that I might have taught you something?
 
You remember wanting to be
Wonder Woman for a party
one Halloween. Knowing you’d
come home crying, I bought you
the costume to play in at home
and suggested you go as a pirate,
transforming your patch into an asset.
 
Before you were homeless,
you’d send me Wonder Woman cards,
magnets, and once a bracelet
emblazoned with lightning.
Now, decades later, you call
filling my ears with your tears,
with tales of being robbed and beaten.
 
You don’t want me to remind you
of the boy who seized his power.
You want to be saved.
But what love could save you
from whatever has you in its power?