For Rose Alone
Last night I dreamed I sat in a biology classroom filled with other adults. The teacher informed us that a computer program had deduced the identity of Superman down to three possible names. He handed out a hand-out. The three names were:
Gwen Zepeda
Gwendolyn Zepeda
Gwendolyn Dough
Was the third one supposed to be me, or was she Superman? I figured it meant me, but I knew I wasn’t Superman. Not that I knew of. At first I kept quiet, didn’t want to identify myself because Lex Luthor was sitting right next to me at our lab table.
Then I decided it would be safer to out myself. “Those are my names,” I said after raising my hand, “But I’m not Superman. Unless it’s Gwendolyn Dough. Unless that means me.”
Lex Luthor turned to me, suddenly interested. He made probing small talk, asking how long I’d lived here in the suburbs.
All the while I wondered if Superman might actually be a woman. What if he actually was me, and I just didn’t know it yet?
I started to feel regret, then, for having identified myself aloud.
