Red January: If Ever Love (A Poem For My Daughter.)

Red January: If Ever Love (A Poem For My Daughter.)
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If I ever have the chance to process down the Capitol steps into a crowd of mixed griefs and red fedoras,

May I wear a fine peacoat and stylish haircut, face drawn and strobed like Melania's.

May I swagger and smile like Barrack, holding steady my enemy's back and leading him forward;

May I step behind him, whispering my assurances, offering my prayers.

May I bring a Tiffany box in white-dove ribbon and peacefully transfer the whole of its contents into the hands of Michelle In Ugly Oprah Cry.

May my gloves shiver just a bit while I give what I brought, as those before me have given.

May I beam like Jimmy and wink at those around me, kind and avuncular, with gratitude:

For I am here now.

May I take the high road like George H.W., humor of an old cowboy and his toy gun, too close to the other side for solemnity, unspoken understanding of what is holy.

May I rise, like Maya, proud and low, a tribbling bird transformed in maturity by the power I do not give away.

May I show up like Bill in a suit, with a mask like Hillary's, stilted and reaching; aching to believe.

May I rock on my feet like George W., face in Resting Confused State, poncho in chaos.

May I resist the urge to try on new dance moves upon the church altar of Dallas funerals.

May I have the Becky Good Hair of Baron.

May I ride in a long black car, symbol of transition to different consciousness, unable to be anywhere but here;

A door closed, a darkened window, the heft of my duty sealed within a thing I cannot open alone. I must ask for help.

May I weep in the genuine way of Boehner with Francis, touched with healing by saints, watching my stigmata ooze into shape.

May I know the peace of Joe; may I have those teeth with that tan; may the matters of my heart be mapped with the loyalty I owe my children.

May I march with a feathered hat, for peace, for love, for equality: for my child, my daughter; for my mother, my grandmothers, and my great grandmothers.

For all mothers and for all children, I will.

May I carry a rainbow on my back, light and transparent, caving never to fear, stopping never to hate, steady in the walk and words of Martin in prison.

For I am called to love and love only.

I live by faith and not by sight, wading in ancestral womb-water, pouring, active, fluid; over whitewashed stone, a stream of time to alter the form beneath me.

I ascend, enclosed, with those I hold most dear, flying over, spinning into heavens, eagle-eye tuned to my people, sacrifice of my scrap-quilt heritage; orders by women in petticoats slipped into torn finger-scrapes of women and girls who started my work.

Painful, dirty, tearful, raw, blessed, holy, hellish, seeking, thirsting, blinding, changing.

I am love like you.

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