Why is it that shadows of history,
Cast long over a life, or lives, loom large
As if propelled by torchlight of sisters
Unseen, still shining with utopia’s charge?
The marchers of this year alone exceed
The way we count, the footsteps and the voices
Too many to recall, and still I need,
I’m forced, empowered now by them, to think—
When did we fall into a history book?
The distant tales—division, unrest, peace—
Revived—they weigh much heavier than they look,
Batons from yesterdays we thought we’d passed.
While of the past’s stories we avail ourselves,
Will we turn cautionary tales ourselves?


How is it that the clock has been reversed,
Back to a time of silence, fear, and plight?
Now bound by decisions most perverse,
The powerless deprived of human rights.
Enclosed inside a fortress of male gaze,
Trump grimly grants a global rule of gag.
All criticisms women might inveigh
Do little to preclude his privileged brags.
Though we may join in sisterhood for justice,
His “us” is plural him, not she or we.
The fight that will not end may now seem aimless,
But that power’s end is my own body.
And of that power, Trump, do not misuse,
For every woman keeps the right to choose.


A crowd’s seen from above. It can’t be known
By man or agency. The satellites
Will serve, but only on clear days. A clown,
A cloud, a clone, a clod, the natural rights
Of things are none, except as met up close.
I march among some hundred thousand, each
As fresh in blood, and flesh of mud, as those
Who first were made, or born, or creeped
From shouting earth. And shouting all together,
In sisterhood, in concert, in our signs,
We sound, at most, like history, or weather,
Like pebbles in the wash, or sand in lines.
So why, while winds make waves of us, and ends,
Do I, no less, find face, to face, again?