Berenize and I often discuss the importance of telling stories about women—stories that are overlooked all too often. This poem (my first in many years!) was inspired by recent Women’s Marches and the countless Wonder Women that surround me.
A hero is a heroine
who doesn’t have a name
Hoisting the heft of the world, its oceans
atop her fragile frame
Her forehead is lined with creases,
unironed from life’s unfolds
Yet her spirit is steel and time-tempered
and Wisdom is her gold
A heroine is the dreamer
in Keds and simple garb
But a pen is her weapon, truth her shield
the words her lethal barb
She joins them in the pulsing streets
a rivulet in the azalea flood
Truth and justice live on her lips
and fire in her blood
Our protectors don’t perch on hills
or hide behind Roman colonnades
No, true champions are our sisters,
ordinary renegades
A hero is a heroine
her song unlocks the shuttered doors
No nightmares, no limits, no gravity,
above the ground she soars