The Picket Line

I was born on the picket line
Banner in one fist, rattle in the other
My body wasn't, of course
But my spirit
She came out kicking and crying and singing
I was born on the picket line
I learned to walk on the steps leading up to the Capitol building
They were taller than I, ice cold, sharpened by the stern heels of stern men
So my feet grew calloused and spiked, and when I step on the flowers
They die and it is not my fault as
I learned to walk on the picket line
I learned to speak from the top of the Washington monument
So forgive me when I only know to shout
To bellow, to fill my frail lungs with thin air and whistle
I learned to speak from the top of a turret
I learned how to sing on the picket line
Young voices, old voices, Black voices, white voices, women's voices, girls' voices, angry voices and tired voices
Voices that were terrifying and beautiful and furious together
When mine gave out, a louder, brassier one would ring in its place
We sang from the back of our teeth to the pangs in our stomachs
We were sirens
I learned to sing
On the picket line