We Marched, Now.

I'm home, now. My

grandmother hangs

on the wall. Softly, and

smiling. A child.

I study her features—

plumper than mine—blue paint

in her eyes, unaware

of me standing here,

swaying here—shivering.

I look at her face, and I

graze at her smile with

the tips of my fingers. At

fifteen, a job; at eighteen

she married. With child.

At forty, a screaming and

powerful force on the streets,

demanding the right

to choose—now.

So we started all

over again—

I screamed and I shouted; I

laughed, even, some—

solidarity laughs—and

we marched.

I'm home, now. My

grandmother hangs on

the wall. I touch her face

softly, once more. Then

my hand comes

back down to my

belly. We marched.