love songs for godzilla
For a headliner, he only gets twenty minutes or so. He's the bait and lure, the hulking brute lurking at the fringes of our imagination. Anticipation propels us into the cavernous maw, crackles down our spines, spears us into the stale air of a silent theater, perched on the edges of our seats. We tolerate the technobabble, suffer the scientists in their white coats. Popcorn-crunching through the confession: another whitebread man clasping his milquetoast girlfriend close, cardboard, scenery-chomping. We didn't come for this. We didn't come for camp, for cliché pans of cityscape or assembled armies. We came for the twenty minutes we knew would charge us lightning-bright, every atom ionized, sparking through with power, pushing us up as the credits roll and out, out into the world. We came for the rubble, the crushed cars, the crashing through cubicles. We came to see him rise, dripping, from the depths, and roar his iconic roar. We came to see him slug it out, id-fic in live 4D. We came to see something win.
About the Author
Gretchen Rockwell is a queer poet currently living in Pennsylvania. Xe is the author of the forthcoming microchapbook Thanatology (Ghost City Press), and xer work has appeared in Glass Poetry, Atlas and Alice, Okay Donkey, Moonchild Magazine, and elsewhere. Gretchen enjoys writing poetry about gender and sexuality, history, myth, science, space, and unusual connections – find xer at www.gretchenrockwell.com or on Twitter at @daft_rockwell.