r i g h t  h a n d  p o i n t i n g

short fiction  short poetry  short commentary  short..uh..art
 

 

     
  Sandwich Girl

Shanna Trenholm

 


Peeling off my sweater like an ill-fitting skin,
I think of the strange girl named after a sandwich.
She was not submarine, nor was she BLT
She was Hero. And, of course, she was not.

I mean, how could she be a sandwich and a superman?
For her, it was impossible. In fact, she hated the idea.
She tried to prove her worth, beyond just her name,
but the gods conspired against her; they kept her down.

Each morning she was greeted by falling buildings
and small dogs panting in the molten streets
and her mother crying out for relief;
relief from high taxes and crazy cab drivers.

Hero, she could do nothing!
She couldn't prove that she was a hero, just simply Hero.
Her mother, disappointed, quit phoning and took public transit.
The dogs, angry and hot, waggled their pink tongues in disgust.

And the buildings, feeling the most betrayed,
reassembled themselves and stood silently as she walked by.

 

 

 

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Shanna Trenholm is a poet, a freelance writer, and a native San Diegan. Her work has appeared in the Willamette Week, The Pointed Circle, and other obscure journals. She holds a BA in English from Portland State University where moss, not money, grows on trees. She is left-handed.

 

 

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