I don’t need a Black Superman
but some people might
those who never knew my uncles
and all they did to raise up
the next generation while being servants
of the church, while erecting businesses
even failing then starting again
to build up a reputation people
in the community could respect.
I don’t need a Black Superman
because I have known men who
came into this world scratch-dirt poor,
who raised sun-shaded houses full of children
made peace with their creator
stretched a dollar in every direction
lived on prayer like war rations
respected their marriages of 40 or 50 years
saw dozens of grandchildren claim them.
These men knew how to make
the earth yield
knew how to make things grow
knew animal husbandry
knew how to build buildings
cinder block by cinder block
knew how to work the factory line.
They owned their own homes.
They owned their own land.
Quiet as watch towers,
they were men of few words.
I don’t need a Black Superman
because I knew my uncles.
They feared no kryptonite.
They grew strong on yams
and dasheen and cornmeal porridge
and boiled green banana and mannish water soup.
I’ve known Black Supermen my whole life.
They were strong. They lived long.
They kept their capes tucked in.
Ellen June Wright
Ellen June Wright (she/her) is an American poet with British and Caribbean roots. Her work has been published in Plume, Tar River, Missouri Review, Verse Daily, Gulf Stream, Solstice, Louisiana Literature, Leon Literary Review, North American Review, Prelude and Gulf Coast, and is forthcoming in the Cimarron Review. She’s a Cave Canem and Hurston/Wright alumna and a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee.