Comix

by Nathalie F. Anderson

In the comix store I'm the oldest by far,

also the only girl. All around me, guys

slouch and mooch, every last one, from the whiskery

to the wispy, cloaked in his secret identity.

Hairs grow on the backs and the palms of their hands.

At night their bodies swell; their rage unbuckles;

ballooning biceps rip their sleeves apart; their beds

break up beneath them — but for now they're under wraps,

only the click of claw on slickened cover

insinuating what's within. Huddled around

over the gaming table, warming their hands

at some mystic mountain campfire, seven dwarves

and five giants peer out from the human flesh

they're wearing. As I go by, each guards his snake–eyes,

then rolls them. The guy who keeps the cash is shaking

his head again: a little warning. For them? For me?

Whatever I ask, he goes dead quiet, still

but dynamic, like he's deep in computation,

like what I've asked is so arcane he has to

translate. Something's lost, they say, in every such

transaction: a little silver rubbing off

the sterling coin of language. Sometimes I think

it's only nubs and slivers passing between us, air

with the sheen of silver. He never answers

what I've asked him, but his "rrhrrrhrhh" or "bssk!" or "NNFFF,"

his "HNNNNH" or "GUULLG" or "whff" or "SKASSSHHHH" or "KASPULCHH,"

compound my interest, precipitating rich

doubloons of ambiguity out of that

silver air. "What's drawn you?" he asked once, his query

flickering between oracle and koan

before he added, "Image? Story? Word?" I'm

drawn and re–drawn, as it happens. I've seen a fist

WHOOMPH right out of its frame, CRUKCH into the next,

aiming and arrowing the eye. I've seen a kiss —

that melting mouth–to–mouth circled for emphasis

in the center of the page — explode from there,

intensities sparking out in jagged spirals

wreaking ruin to the utmost margin. I've seen

the most unlikely consonants, jammed up tight,

give birth and breath to whipper–snapper vowels

implied and implicated interstitially:

BZCX JRKQ DWFGT — yes? SPLPHLRMMmmng.

Drawn by and through this universe, I see I'm

bound to change. Already, in elevated crowds,

my sound effects raise eyebrows, blurting some

and blistering in three–inch scarlet lettering,

or dwindling from my tongue to rat track, grackle track,

ant track. At night I wake up sweating, eyes bright

as kryptonite, skin suddenly reptilian,

all my rapscallions radioactive. Who knows

what I might do? Now at comix conventions

no one looks at me twice. Man or boy, varlet

or vampire or caped crusader, they nod,

let me pass. Next best thing to invisible,

I spy out the most outrageous action figures,

salt away the gamers' shiniest spells, slink in

to the autographing stables, where writer,

penciller, inker, colorist, and letterer

convey, fast as WHZZZT, super–strength, super–smarts,

personality, agility, and — oh yes —

super–power, the thought balloons rising thicker, faster

than the letterers can fill them, babbling up and

bubbling over, the air (pript! pop!) like sparkling wine.

Could anything be more cool than expertise?