All she wanted when she fled up
north was to keep her child and man --
she hummed her song all along.
All she wanted from mother’s day
was for her son and another
mother’s boy let each other live.
All she wanted from her locked chain
on the White House fence was to vote
for a man for President.
All she wanted from a wheelchair
rolling her body to the voter’s booth
was a death with dignity.
All she wants running for office
is to oust the jerks who tell her
to do more with less and love it.
All she wants from her website
is for Muslim and Jewish women
to read each other’s poetry.
All she wants from a pink t-shirt
is to walk with womenfolk
who celebrate survival.
All she wants from bumper stickers
is for neighbors to know
she yearns to marry Isabelle.
All she wants to find online
is work that lets her feed her twins
more than macaroni and cheese.
All I want from holding the queen
is to slide her fleet-foot fury
to checkmate the cross-head king.
Tricia Knoll is a Portland, Oregon poet. She never burned a bra but she walked in a Yale graduation in 1970 without one.
