In heels that pinch and blister,
we dance the waltz of human rights:
one step forward, two steps back.

In a cotillion rigged against us,
where the many are controlled and exploited
for the convenience of the few,
we dance.

We dance in fields and factories,
our bodies worn and sore, denied
our labor’s just reward.

We dance in offices and boardrooms,
voices ignored, contributions overlooked,
ideas disregarded, disdained,
discarded.

We dance in the echo chambers and algorithms
of propaganda and misinformation,
of social media that demands a face filtered and photoshopped
and a body impossible to attain,
so that influencers and merchants of happiness
can sell us one more product promising perfection.

We dance in the streets and all too often
bear the blame and shame for violence against us,
because we dress a certain way
or have too much to drink or simply
walk alone.

We dance in tabernacles where some would wield
the cudgel of religion to deny us agency
of our bodies, our wombs; of who and what we are and whom
we love; of the names we answer to and how we move
in this world.

We dance in courtrooms and in the halls of congress
where the fetus is venerated, but once born,
left to languish in poverty, to struggle in schools
starved for funding, stripped of art and music,
destined to join the perpetual parade of cheap labor.

We dance at the border, fleeing war and famine,
denigrated, denied entry for the color of our skin,
sending our children across alone, just so
they might have a chance to survive.

We dance to the tune of moguls of murder
manufacturing machines that maim and kill,
lubricating legislators, plying pundits
with hard cash and twisted logic
to justify selling any sick, disordered soul
the weapons that slaughter our children
in their classrooms.

We are weary. We are grieving,
and we hold inside a smoldering anger,
tinder of a just and righteous flame.

Come. Stand beside me,
and we’ll shed these dancing shoes that have
squeezed and bound our feet for so long.

We’ll trade them in for trainers
and we’ll walk, and then we’ll run
down this rugged road despite the stones
and threats and hurdles thrown our way.

We’ll trade them in for boots, and we’ll
gather, and we’ll march with our mothers
and our sisters and our daughters and our friends.

We’ll walk, we’ll run, we’ll march
to the one place our voices will be heard
in the most real and powerful way.

We’ll walk, we’ll run, we’ll march
to the voting booth.

And we’ll let no one stop us.

(previously published in Voices de la Luna and an anthology by Querencia Press)