Linda 03

The Poem

She left the room.The magazine never imagined this —that the image would get up,put on the cape,walk out the door into the neighborhoodat the golden hourwhen the sky has turned the specific yellowof something about to change —and aim.

The aim is steady

Linda 01 — the mask. The private room.The peace signs. The phone on her terms.Linda 02 — the direct gaze. The dotted line.The image ends here. The woman continues.Linda 03 —

the woman who continued all the way out the doorinto the street,standing in the suburb at nightin her black suit and her red capewith the gun aimed at something we cannot seebut she can —has always been able to see —from inside the magazine,from behind the mask,through the dotted line.

The neighborhood is quiet.The houses geometric, golden.The palm trees silhouettedagainst the yellow skythat has decided to be the color of consequence.

Nobody is saying anything —which is how suburbs work,which is how the world has always workedaround women who finally aimed.

The cape moves.This is the third layer —not the mask, not the armor, not the gaze —the motion.

The motion

The motion of a womanwho spent years being still for the cameraand has decided that stillnesswas someone else’s idea of her.

I don’t know what she’s aiming at.I think that’s correct. I think that’s the point —she knows. She has always known.She waited until the layers were all present —the mask, the armor, the gaze,and now this:the door, the street, the golden sky, the aim.

The third piece.She is outside.The cape is red. The sky is gold.The aim is steady.

The magazine is very far away.
She is not looking back.