my grandmother tells me,
as she
sips her earl grey tea
and nibbles
at her Melba Toast.
she puts her knitting aside
and sighs
while
her grey blue
eyes look off into the distance.
did i ever tell you about
the time we burned
our bras and marched
down 5th avenue,
jiggling all the way
to Central Park
with Gloria Steinem leading the way?
no, i tell her, and please,
stop there,
i don't want that image
in my head right now.
oh, it was a glorious time
for protest marches,
gay rights, people of color,
the women's movement.
the war in Vietnam.
i met my first husband on
one of those marches.
he was a policeman from
the Bronx.
part of the riot squad.
we got into a tussle, and fell
onto the ground,
where he protected me from
the rushing mob.
he lay on top of me
with his Billy club on my neck,
until the crowd moved
on, then he pulled his plastic
visor up and kissed me
on the lips.
he told me that i was the most
beautiful creature
he'd ever tackled on the street.
it was history after that.
sometimes when i smell
tear gas and mace in the air,
and smell buildings
burning,
or hear the breaking of plate
glass store windows,
my knees go weak
and i wish he was still around.
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