I bought one for the first time in decades.
I’m wearing it.
What possesed me?
It has suddenly become important,
like the high heels Martha wore
the day she got her general’s stars.
Those men, suited or uniformed,
slick-shaved, striding to the podium,
and the unapologetic click of Martha’s heels.
This is the sound of it, I thought.
The shift. The change.
This is what it sounds like.
Did you listen close
while Nancy defended the kids?
A powerful old woman
dancing forwards. And not
just in high heels, but stilettos.
Did you listen to Emma,
the power of her stillness,
unashamed of tears?
Not for men’s pleasure,
these symbols of our power:
lipstick, high heels, short skirts.
Maybe it was Eve who woke me up:
This short skirt is mine.
I am old enought to remember
Bella’s hats, first the necessity,
then the pleasure.
Maybe it was our hats,
those cute pink hats with ears.
We grabbed the derogatory,
transformed it into strength.
What change looks like.
Even tears are power.
It’s what we’re doing now
in our leggings and boots,
and running shoes and fleece,
our torn jeans and t shirts and hoodies
our shawls and scarves,
our nursing bras and aprons.
And yes, in our lipstick and four-inch heels.