by Sage Curtis

The Women March

No one goes out in the rain
in San Francisco. We lack
the proper shoes & coats.
The Civic Center Plaza is gray
today if you look up, but look out
and it’s pink. Turns out, San Francisco
turns out in the rain with thunderous signs
& chants & drums & whistles that need blowing.
Turns out, turning the clock back makes all of us turn
into ticking time bombs, no amount of rain putting out
this fire started & ripping through this city & the one across
the Bay & the one in LA, NYC, DC. Thirty protests signs in Antarctica
& turns out we aren’t just women, but an army marching together, our feet
soaked and jackets drenched. Our protests signs bleeding ink down our arms.
Turns out, ink & blood look a lot alike when they’re running for the same reason.

– – – – –

Sage Curtis is a Bay Area writer fascinated by the way cities grit and women move. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Main Street Rag, burntdistrict, Yes Poetry, The Fem Lit, Vagabonds and more.

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