Cosplay 2

Superheroines in the Living Room: Comics

Weight on the ball of her right foot, inky
wedge heel just barely brushing the tiled floor,
the woman's left toe thrusts forward. Boot shaft
climbs from ankle to knee. A dark extension
reaches mid-thigh, where purple unitard
emerges, sparkles past fingers enclosed
in black gloves that sheath forearms, elbows.
Light bouncing from the lamp stand on her left
rims her near breast, casting shadows across
her chest. Draped over her slanted shoulders,
brunette ponytail merges with the dark.

Face half-hidden, Catwoman regards us
with a cool challenge, but portraits climbing
the wall behind her reek of normalcy:
toddlers, family groups, senior portraits.
The decor is tastefully restrained:
potted plants, blue-and-white vase in fish-shape,
its mouth gaping. This is hardly the lair
of a villain. And why would she bother
to trespass in such a place with no jewels,
diamonds, super-secret weapons to steal?
She couldn't be the daughter in one of those pix.
Antiheroes don't spring from such plain roots.

Copyright © 2011 by Anthony W. Artuso

Cosplay 1

Blair Dame*

Usually confined to an arcade screen,
you kick, pummel bad guys, but here you are,
in the flesh, showing us dimpled shoulders,
which overflow the hem of your white top.

Black bands on biceps bulge. Sheathed in fingerless,
thumbless gloves, your hands -- ivory nails perfect
though you throw punches -- rest, arms akimbo
atop your hips, which, spreading wide inside
flesh-colored tights, make your leotard a thong.

Thick thighs descend into black over-knee
boots that end in wickedly pointed heels.

We see your face in profile, framed by blue
cascade of curls tumbling past your ears, cheeks.
With the corner of your eye, you dare us
to mistake you for a plump teenager.

* video game character found in the Street Fighter EX series developed by Arika.

Copyright © 2011 by Anthony W. Artuso

Lady

The same sun that whitewashes the concrete

below her inch-thick soles slides long shadows

under the edge of her charcoal duster,

which dangles about her ankles like bat wings.

The light throws her towering heels into relief,

rendering them even more monstrous,

frosting the deep inkiness of her boots,

highlighting each fold, crease, seam from sharp toe

to shin before the leather straightens and smoothes,

ascending her calf until taut, shiny.

From the top of the shaft, her denim-clad

knee emerges, bent, points arrow-like

to the word on the van’s side: “Hyundai.”

Copyright © 2010 by Anthony W. Artuso

CandiHeels

She regards us over her shoulder --

blue eyes, red lips -- through the parted curtain

of frosted locks. Left hand rests on the edge

of the Corvette’s open boot, cherry-tipped

talons as stark against the lacquered black

chassis as the ruby taillights that flank

the hem of her brief onyx minidress.

From darkness beneath the folds, stocking seams,

like a highway double line, race down,

past a coy California plate that coos

“UH OOH,” gleaming rear fender, exhaust pipes

that stare like some four-eyed monster past

ankles that end in lustrous ebony stilettos

bracketed left and right by tire treads.

Copyright © 2010 by Anthony W. Artuso

Frames

Even without the flash to give her eyes a demonic
cast, you can see the one on the left’s always
being told by the coach to pay attention.

The teen focuses on the ceiling, her mouth
stretched in the widest possible grin, light
sparking off lipstick, ebony top, shorts,

medal dangling down her chest. Atop her head,
hair spurts from a scrunchie; bobby-pins tame
the locks of her friend on the right. This girl

regards the lens coolly, her mouths’ full bow
juicy, scarlet. Behind her left shoulder,
the red Samsung camera held by a teammate

displays the duo in miniature.
This photographer is known to us only
by her wrist and hand because the framer

of the larger picture has cut her out,
leaving us to speculate on the happy chaos
that bathes these cheerleaders after the contest:

siblings texting, aunties cooing, boyfriends
shuffling, moms commanding, dads ruefully
calculating number of trips to the car

as they eye sneakers, uniforms, cases
piled in the photo’s lower right-hand corner.

Copyright © 2010 by Anthony W. Artuso

To the Pictured Photographer

Your bare knees – exposed between your black skirt’s
hem and laced tops of combat boots – are bent,
crouched for a leap; your blue-bloused torso leans
back as if your slight pack pulled your shoulders;
elbows forward; camera held to your eye.

Your pal’s ebony boots disappear beneath
her ankle-length denim dress. Her hands hang
at her waist as she waits, rucksack at the ready
to continue your urban hike. You both
gaze out of the frame fascinated – by

what we’ll never know since your photographer
focused solely on you, unwitting models
for his boot-lovers’ Web site. Your friend’s face
has been digitally erased to protect
her privacy, but yours is unretouched,

your features still intact behind your lens,
which, by obscuring it, saved your visage.

Copyright © 2010 by Anthony W. Artuso