For Angela Davis  

It was the rusty shovel in the ash bucket,
the over-jawed gum on our soles, a drone
of mind leeches swarming in unison,
our town just a mildewed past
we were desperately trying to shed.
Two Wonder Bread rebels so willing to trade
those land-locked notions for a free-thinking ocean.  

We cruised our sass along Main Street,
scattered youthful mutinies like chicken feed,
shook a town where fear dwelled behind curtains
and closed minds rattled door knobs in the night.
We hung with a wild boy in a silver drag car
because his name was Huey,
fell asleep to Janis and Nina and Grace,
buried our bras where our mothers wouldn’t look,
echoed anti-war mantras at the dinner table.  

We had yet to learn that cool also wore purpose,
sang to more than hair and high school.
We just wanted to be women bold
and brave and radical as a new idea,
as jazz,
as a hunger beyond.