This stems from a misreading of a label in a car window, advertising “Superflo” gasoline.

SUPERHO

About the name: she came up with it
in an off moment. Not that she liked the label,
or thought it applied to her or anyone else, really;
but after years of being ogled by teenagers
who caught her in midflight all spangled and
skin-tight, after selling her image
to the pinball and video game merchants,
after trying to make a living fighting crime
and only getting noticed for tits and ass,
it only took a last-straw leer and a bad joke
to make it stick in her head for good.

She thought about changing the costume to Juicy Couture,
changing the persona to soccer mom from another planet, modern woman
bitten by a radioactive feminist spider — eh. Stick with
the tried and true, she decided, and let the bastards
think what they want. I’ll keep at it my way,
maybe kick more balls than ass for awhile
just to make them a little more wary of what they think.

Soon enough, she started skipping the superhero meetings. She cropped her hair
and stopped talking to Ironman, that condescending prick.
She never went by the bar anymore, missing out on
the locker-room jokes and tips for dealing with
parallel universes — hell, she thought, I’m in a parallel universe
every time I step into a room with these jokers.

On a cold day on October she hung up the leotard for the last time.

These days she sits around a lot. She uses her powers sparingly —
turning back time, for example, to get to the video store before it closes.
She watches a lot of movies and wishes she was Katherine Hepburn, sometimes,
but mostly she’s happy — takes lovers when she chooses
but more often sleeps alone and loves it, lets the catalogs pile up untouched,
and never, ever, thinks of her name.