Rita Maria Martinez
Kandor
When
the break-
through
headache penetrates
the neurostimulator’s
electromagnetic barrier,
transforms into a full-
blown migraine, it feels
like millions of miniaturized
Kandorians are storming the
confines of Krypton’s bottled
city: children’s faces press and
smear against glass, frantic elders
search for a breach, microscopic
cracks, and the remaining Lilliputian-
sized citizens tirelessly pound Brainiac’s
prison, a bell jar, until glass warps, vibrations
reverberate throughout like a succession of
waves crashing against a defenseless shore.
When
the break-
through
headache penetrates
the neurostimulator’s
electromagnetic barrier,
transforms into a full-
blown migraine, it feels
like millions of miniaturized
Kandorians are storming the
confines of Krypton’s bottled
city: children’s faces press and
smear against glass, frantic elders
search for a breach, microscopic
cracks, and the remaining Lilliputian-
sized citizens tirelessly pound Brainiac’s
prison, a bell jar, until glass warps, vibrations
reverberate throughout like a succession of
waves crashing against a defenseless shore.
Elegy for Colonel Steven Trevor
In 1969 there is no minister or military chaplain.
Pallbearers are absent. Mourners don’t hear
the firing of three rifle volleys over his grave.
The flag isn’t presented to his mother.
Its red and white stripes aren’t wrapped
into the blue as the light of day vanishes
into the darkness of night. After decades piloting
planes for the Army Air Corps, capturing Nazis,
and breaking up spy rings there’s no funeral.
Readers are robbed. They want to express grief,
crave closure, yearn to witness the Amazon
Princess weeping over the fallen hero’s casket.
After many dangerous missions, Steve is murdered
during the tail-end of the Silver Age, bumped off
by operatives working for the diabolical Doctor Cyber.
The ensuing saga could’ve been set on Themyscira,
where Queen Hippolyta’s fleet of fierce warriors
honor Steve’s memory by offering ancient sacrifices
and prayers to a coterie of Olympian goddesses
like Artemis, Athena, and Aphrodite so the soldier’s soul
fares well in the afterlife. Instead, the Amazons dissolve
all earthly ties by teleporting to a different dimension.
Diana renounces her powers, ditches the patriotic costume
and embraces the odd Karate Mod Era by embarking
on a silly shopping spree, training with martial arts master
I-Ching, and making out with a detective she barely knows
not long after the love of her life is interred in the cold ground.
Readers knew the military intelligence officer
would eventually succumb to bullet or bomb, shrapnel
or old age—but never expected the shoddy treatment,
the lack of fanfare. A dead hamster garners more respect.
Like many Vietnam vets Steve deserved better—more than
just a couple of measly panels in #180, A Death for Diana.
In 1969 there is no minister or military chaplain.
Pallbearers are absent. Mourners don’t hear
the firing of three rifle volleys over his grave.
The flag isn’t presented to his mother.
Its red and white stripes aren’t wrapped
into the blue as the light of day vanishes
into the darkness of night. After decades piloting
planes for the Army Air Corps, capturing Nazis,
and breaking up spy rings there’s no funeral.
Readers are robbed. They want to express grief,
crave closure, yearn to witness the Amazon
Princess weeping over the fallen hero’s casket.
After many dangerous missions, Steve is murdered
during the tail-end of the Silver Age, bumped off
by operatives working for the diabolical Doctor Cyber.
The ensuing saga could’ve been set on Themyscira,
where Queen Hippolyta’s fleet of fierce warriors
honor Steve’s memory by offering ancient sacrifices
and prayers to a coterie of Olympian goddesses
like Artemis, Athena, and Aphrodite so the soldier’s soul
fares well in the afterlife. Instead, the Amazons dissolve
all earthly ties by teleporting to a different dimension.
Diana renounces her powers, ditches the patriotic costume
and embraces the odd Karate Mod Era by embarking
on a silly shopping spree, training with martial arts master
I-Ching, and making out with a detective she barely knows
not long after the love of her life is interred in the cold ground.
Readers knew the military intelligence officer
would eventually succumb to bullet or bomb, shrapnel
or old age—but never expected the shoddy treatment,
the lack of fanfare. A dead hamster garners more respect.
Like many Vietnam vets Steve deserved better—more than
just a couple of measly panels in #180, A Death for Diana.
Rita Maria Martinez's Jane Eyre-inspired poetry collection—The Jane and Bertha in Me—was published by Kelsay Books in 2016. Martinez's current writing raises awareness about triumphs and challenges amidst navigating life with chronic daily headaches and migraines. Her poetry has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and appears in places like The Best American Poetry Blog, Ploughshares, and the Notre Dame Review. To learn more about Martinez’s work, visit https://comeonhome.org/Martinez. Follow her on Twitter @cubanbronteite, or on Instagram @rita.maria.martinez.poet