by Sandra Anfang
I didn’t think they’d do it
I thought it was a bluff.
Fifty years of progress
and the promise of more
wrung like rags and tossed away.
Metal hanger signs dot the crowd.
Bitter copper paints my tongue.
Red tears defile our cheeks
divide us into stars and stripes.
Iodine and salt set the stain
as the monthly blood of women
swirls in pinwheel patterns
down the snowy drains
of smug old men who mock
our mock democracy.
Is that Sisyphus ahead
pushing his bloody burden up the hill
of fat white lies? Senators puff stogies
turn on their heels to leer as the
pageant of female flesh flows by
shouting, pumping fists and rage
marching in our pink pussy hats.
I can see from their lewd smiles
that this is entertainment of the
you look pretty when you’re angry kind.
It’s time to take a knee, sisters, every time
that cursed pledge is mouthed.
With liberty and justice for all we stand
united, ready to lift each other up.
We are at your cervix, America.
Author’s Note: My small town held a rally and march on Saturday that attracted hundreds of protestors, including many men and children. I'm holding the big sign in the photo by Beth Schlanker in the Santa Rosa Press Democrat, with my ninety-year-old friend.
Sandra Anfang is a California poet, teacher, and artist. Her poems have appeared in numerous journals including Rattle, The New Verse News, The MacGuffin, and Spillway. Her poetry collections include Looking Glass Heart (Finishing Line Press, 2016), Road Worrier (Finishing Line Press, 2018), and Xylem Highway (Main Street Rag, 2019). Kelsay Books will publish her chapbook Finishing School in early 2023. She’s been nominated for a Best Short Fictions award, Best of the Net, and a Pushcart Prize. Anfang is founder and host of the monthly series, Rivertown Poets (established 2013), and a poetry teacher in the schools.