The Bread We Eat in Dreams

by 2002.

The truth is,

I loved the Incredible Hulk

with a brighter, purer love.

I, too,

wanted to turn so green

and big

no one could hurt me.

I wanted

to get that angry. But when the time came

to bust out

of my Easter dress and roar

I just cried

hoping that the villains I knew

would melt out of shame.

The truth is,

I wasn’t worthy of the Hulk.

But the boy under the sea

the one with four colors

and his own animated series

said:

Hey, girl. Being six in 1985 is no fucking joke.

You’ve got your stepmother

with a fist like Black Manta

and good luck getting a job when you’re grown.

Any day now the Russians might

decide to quit messing around

and light up a deathsky for all to see.

Sometimes I cry, too.

Or.