Two Poems

by Abbie Langmead

Supervillainy

I think that I would make for a really great supervillain.

I’m serious, think about it. I can play up the tragic backstory

a little bit, and I’m already wearing the all-black get-up

you’d expect from someone up to no good. And if they ever

call me doctor, the people who don’t know any better

will say Of course, an evil genius! and the ones who do will say

I get it, academia can make anybody go mad.

And you might think, look at yourself, and those cute little cheeks,

cue all the Zaydes, Bubbes, and Nonas telling me You’re so beautiful,

but that is exactly why I would be such a good supervillain! Hiding

in plain sight, one red herring away from safety any minute and a

Who, me? I could NEVER! Any time eyes start turning my way.

But it’s more than that. Villainy is more than surface deep and white lies,

I know my own character best. I want, in a way that liquid rope-coils

into my entire sense of self like honey in a bear shaped jar,

I am constantly thinking ahead, building something bulletproof

for myself to live in. A job well done is someone I respect saying

that it’s good enough, and even so. I am relentless, and I will not stop

Until that fucking Bat-boy is dead and the people finally get what they deserve!

And I think that’s what’s stopping me actually, the people.

I can dream as much as I want for my own future,

but invincibility wasn’t made for the young or poetic,

and I just so happen to be both. I want just as much as I love,

I fight twice as hard for others than I’ve ever learned to do for myself.

I am afraid of gunning down a hero with nobody to redeem.

I am afraid of never being mourned. I will give myself a name

so pride can spill out of my grandmother’s mouth. I will earn

my life because of my actions, because of what I do, for them.

I’d love anyone for anything, except the person that I’ve convinced myself can be so wicked.

I think I would be a good supervillain because I believe that I deserve it,

to be unmasked and have everyone see the worst parts of me in daylight,

no, in some hero’s shadow. I want to think that I have some control,

that I am the betrayer, so I will never be betrayed. That all this promise

has no purpose if it is not used up, if it is not part of a grand design that

places the world in my grasp. I can’t see myself as a person who gets away.

No, I get close. Just close enough to keep, only to, at the last second, get it ripped away.

For Vela

(Previously published in Northern New England Review, Edition 45)

i used to be able

to identify stars,

and the stories the greeks

made up to justify

the heroes in the sky.

but in the woods that night,

they were only contours

of light, innumerous

but unlabeled, make up

of stories i’d forgotten

or lost.

around the fire, we took

note of satellites, found

taurus on an iphone

map, searched for oddities.

like one star.  it flickered.

staring up, i asked if

we were watching a star

dying. i was told that

we’d only see it die

millenia after

it was already dead.

when you’re that far away,

physics keeps it alive.

suspended in between

nothing and everything,

remaining and remembrance

blink in and out of view.

BIO: Abbie Langmead (she/they) is the neglected herb garden on your windowsill. First planted in Boston, Massachusetts, they tried to set roots in Dublin, Ireland but there's not enough light. Recent cuttings have been planted in Lucky Jefferson, The Polyglot Magazine, Cordite Poetry Review, and many others. She also nurtures seedings as a reader for The Adroit Journal. She wants your leftover pasta water and to connect @abbie.langmead on Instagram.