Ana Maria Spagna
Shirley Chisholm Dances Salsa in My Dreams
The earth’s mantle sloshes
under the weight
of a sewing needle the way
she swivels and dips
chamomile smooththe way
a callused thumb slips
under apathythe way
McGregor Mountain glowsthe way
a varied thrush sings
the same shrill
note, over and over, as your hips
slide the soft mattress slope.
She shuffles and shimmies
unbought and unbossed, as ever,
and with a cat-eye wink
and a bullhorn she sews
stone shards of my heart
as my legs swing in unison
and my bare feet hit the cold floor
and dust rises in a dump truck’s wake
without grace, maybe, but just
enough tenacity.
I’m telling you:
Fighting Shirley taught us
the United States of America
wears gaunt over time
honyocked by rain,
but once unweighted rises again
impervious to pierce the way
ice cracks granite the way
pumice floats the way
plum jam crushes punditry
every time, sin ganas,
and cries for justice,
sloshing slow.
—Submitted on 10/03/2020
Ana Maria Spagna is the author of the prose works Uplake (University of Washington Press, 2018), Reclaimers (University of Washington Press, 2015), Potluck (Oregon State University Press, 2011), Test Ride on the Sunnyland Bus (Bison Books, 2010), and Now Go Home (Oregon State University Press, 2004). Her poems have appeared in Bellingham Review, Pilgrimage, North Dakota Quarterly, and Spoon River Poetry Review. Spagna lives in a remote town in the North Cascades of Washington State.
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