By CL Bledsoe
Warrior princess at five years old, a bath towel
safety-pinned around her neck to billow as she dashed
through the house in scuffed white sneaks, blown-out-
knee jeans, and a county fair tee shirt. Pursued
by a furious Hippolyta yelling to quit running in
and out of the kitchen while I’m canning preserves!
She vaulted out the front door, over the steps, landed
in quaking grass on one knee, then rose, ready
for evildoers, be they ninja, robot, or school teacher.
When Wonder Woman cracked her Lasso of Truth,
fathers couldn’t promise they’d be home early but roll
in loaded, late, and ready to fight. Mothers
couldn’t spend all day watching soap operas while
their deific daughters ran wild and bored. Her golden
bracelets deflected ballistic language shot from cruel
lips. Her tiara could cut through the mundaneness
of any day. An Amazonian warrior needed no help
from any man; only the goddesses who granted
her strength. From her invisible plane, perched
in the pecan tree’s shedding limbs, she could look
down on the weak world while no one could see her.