I voted.

On the day I voted for a woman,

I wore lipstick and a t-shirt with a unicorn.

I stood in line and waited.

I cast a ballot.

I ate a burger.

 

On the day I voted for a woman,

I remembered laying on the floor in Mrs. Glovier’s kindergarten class.

Sharpie outline.

I wanted to be teacher.

The girl next to me wanted to be president.

While no one said it, there was the feeling

            Our little girl bodies were unequipped for such a task.

 

On the day I voted for a woman,

I remembered sitting in a van full of other 13 year olds.

The driver commented:

            Women can’t be presidents because of PMS, he said.

One of many lessons to teach me to hate my body.

 

On the day I voted for a woman,

A punk-ass dick pulled over his car

To tell me about my body,

To see if I wanted to date him.

 

On the day I voted for a woman,

I remembered my little faith in political offices.

And I paid my first installment on my new health insurance plan

            It will be one-third of my pay.

           And I felt penalized for having this body.

I offered a little (even if lost) prayer that thing might be different.

 

On the day I voted for a woman,

I saw a little brown girl wrapped tight around a mother’s legs.

She cast her ballot, and handed her the sticker.

          Her mother announced, “she’s next.”

On the day I voted for a woman I was reminded

         Imagination is powerful.