This is about the time I first marched for a cause.

The March

It is almost time.
We can hear the thunder of riot boots over the crowd.
My first.
Beside me on the right, my fiancé James.
On my left, my hero and the man I respect
to the depths of my being.
He squeezes my hand and tells me not to be afraid.
But no soldiers or police dog scare me
half as much as the thought I might let him down.
We hold hands and sing, “We shall overcome. . .”
Peaceful, making no threatening move.
Then they are upon us like crazed monkeys.
Being a pretty girl spared me no blow.
It was the time the big German Shepherd
lunged at me and gave me the scar over my eyebrow.
When the brotherhood brought it up, the sheriff
blamed me for antagonizing the dog.
The press ran stories.
Some said she deserved it.
Some were outraged.
I was relieved and excited that I didn’t let him downThe March
This poem was inspired by mentor, David Mott, on a recent poem
he wrote about the Chicago Gestapo.


It is almost time.
We can hear the thunder of riot boots over the crowd.
My first.
Beside me on the right, my fiancé James.
On my left, my hero and the man I respect
to the depths of my being.
He squeezes my hand and tells me not to be afraid.
But no soldiers or police dog scare me
half as much as the thought I might let him down.
We hold hands and sing, “We shall overcome. . .”
Peaceful, making no threatening move.
Then they are upon us like crazed monkeys.
Being a pretty girl spared me no blow.
It was the time the big German Shepherd
lunged at me and gave me the scar over my eyebrow.
When the brotherhood brought it up, the sheriff
blamed me for antagonizing the dog.
The press ran stories.
Some said she deserved it.
Some were outraged.
I was relieved and excited that I didn’t let him down.