That night, she walked beneath a scrap of moon, Venus sparkling nearby like the brightest bauble. Strange, black clouds muffled the moon, then left it naked, then covered it thinly as if it hung behind a scrim.
The crescent looked like a curved needle, and she wondered if it could sew all that was torn asunder. She wondered what sort of thread it would take to hold everything fast again.
Thanks to those who rode wheelchairs, strapped babies to their backs, leaned on canes, held hands with trans lovers. Thanks to those who overwhelmed Chicago and marched anyway, and to the four who marched in Lilly, Pennsylvania. Thanks to those who marched in Edinburgh, in Buenos Aires, in Dar Es Salaam, in Guam, in Seoul. Thanks to every body, every soul, every beautiful, resolute face.
We are mighty, yawped the collective. We are not afraid, and we are ready to do the work. If you come for one of us, you come for us all.
Sixteen years ago, I led a caravan of friends with a rental truck loaded with all my belongings. I was driving away from my marriage along a ridge overlooking Washington DC, moving on a January day as cold and dark as my relationship.
Along that ridge, a motorcade passed in the other direction, lights on, sirens off. It was the suddenly-former Vice President, returning to civilian life after a heartbreaking transition.
At my new apartment, a dozen friends assembled my bed, arranged my kitchen, unpacked books. With each action, they set the stage for the light to return.
What is this? I asked, standing awkwardly next to a table where two men sat, small cars and their tiny parts spread in front of them.
RC car racing, the man replied. It’s just like regular car racing, only smaller. You either like it or you don’t.
Is this every week? I asked, though I knew I was unlikely to be back that way for a long, long while.
Every other week, he said. It keeps us off the streets.
I unwrap the bagel—stuffed with avocado, sprouts, cucumber, bacon—and it sits there, stable, ready, waiting for my first bite.
But I have to stretch my jaw to get my mouth around it, and that is the moment when I realize I burned the roof of my mouth yesterday without knowing it, and the bagel’s surface is awfully rough, and biting down will leave the taste of iron on my tongue. With each bite, the fillings slide around, redistributing themselves into something less balanced, less pleasing.
This is not the breakfast I expected.
The last line of the haiku should have been five syllables, but he stopped at three.
He was out of words, after all, and he had spent much of the day thinking about the U.S. Constitution.
Before the sun came up, he slipped into the coffee shop and spotted the empty cup on the table. Is this yours? he asked, making sure to try to make eye contact with everyone within earshot, making himself noticed, yet remaining just invisible enough.
I shook my head, and he swept the cup into his arms, which were already full with a bottle of water, some toiletries, an extra shirt. He disappeared into the bathroom for awhile, then emerged, changed and ready for a free refill.
100 Proof 