Back at the women’s march a second time
I am better prepared to realize these chanting voices
are hands, small hands, nearly invisible, partially constructed of air.
Of course. A voice is after all air.
No wonder I did not notice this the first time I marched.
And if I could join those hands.
If these fingers could interlock.
And then I am on shoulders, balanced on them like boards,
Above the soft sea of pussyhats
Whose ears are gentle pink waves.
When I bend them the fingers of all the hands clutch easily.
They want to grab. Each other. In peace.
And the interlock of hands makes a trampoline
On which I vault in lavish jumps
Up to the Oval Office
Which is square.
This is just one sign of corruption.
Another is the cinderblock desk.
The document is in there
In Russian, in a glass case,
And I am certain that with one good leap
I could grab it. Grab is a synonym for power
I am coming to understand.
But this pussyhat sea is worth seeing again,
All these voices agreeing
They are confused but not
About whether they are human. They are human
And in love, but when I take this in again,
Filtered through the screen
Of my phone in a square-
framed photo for Instagram,
The net of hands breaks down
And the square Oval Office is gone.
The people keep spreading apart.
The wide space between each body is perilous
And soon the wind has shoved me
Through a crack in the sidewalk
Into Alaska where the air is made of swirling snow.
My eyelashes are the first to go
As I begin to freeze into a statue,
A monument, a dead human
Marking the crack in Washington.