It’s nice to feel powerful.
It’s nice to walk into a coffee shop with no tables,
Only pillows on the floor and on the giant stairs
And typewriters everywhere and feel taller
When the male barista asks you
What kind of croissant you want.
It’s nice to accidentally walk into a hallway
With tables everywhere and tri-fold posters on those tables
And people in suits sitting in plastic chairs behind the tables
And be able to turn around and leave without your face getting hot.
It’s nice to go around in the revolving door again
Just because it’s fun and
Just because you feel like it.
It’s nice to think about how revolving doors
Are eco-friendly because technically
They’re never closed.
It’s nice to scream
“This is what democracy looks like”
With a hundred people you’ve never met before.
It’s nice to know that these people
Would help you up if you tripped over the curb
Because you were too busy
Looking at a dog in a sweater to pay attention.
It’s nice to realize your cheeks hurt from smiling so much
And your feet hurt from walking so far
And your heart hurts from loving so hard,
But in a good way.
It’s nice to know that
I am a nasty woman,
A granddaughter of the witches they were unable to burn,
A concept and identity
That would make old, rich, white men tremble.
As they should.
Because one day, our voices, our footfalls, our heartbeats
Will shake the flawed infrastructure of this country to the ground.
It’ll be nice to see that happen.
Ally Bush's interests include color coordination, green beans, space, and rehearsing what she has to say at a drive-thru 10 minutes before she gets there. She's a student at Queens University of Charlotte and spends her days reading, sleeping, and procrastinating.
It continues to snow dust.
The sun comes out of the closet.
Jays enter under the door
jumping over a line of air.
Maybe it was just the light,
cracked somewhere, leaked out,
lucky—I thought you shifted away
in voice, my mouth to hear,
My senses are a cushion, and yet this horror appears to taste my morrow. My alarms are useless because they are on fire with the rest of my home.
Be honest now—
just for a minute; I cried.
I had him locked out—
a perfectly good wish.
Privately, for over a year now you drove off and left me.
The place cooled down beaming and bright—
put my name on a silencer (it’s not the end of the world).
In the mirror, the wooden bust of Christ Nicodemus carved
and Joseph commended to the sea, stares out for reflection.
Only a true spell
of fittingly glamorous phenomena
repaired sunstruck imagination—
Too big for your body, the whale of a bed will go on sale; also the dresser, its
three-linked mirrors tall as sails.
The Nazis are back in town.
No, I know. They never, ever left.