It wasn't long before my wrist was sore,
Holding up a phone on the sidewalk
To record the marchers, all the marchers, each one
Filing past, a few drumming, most holding
Signs or wearing symbolic items of clothing
And accessories, pink shirts, jackets, hats.
My knees could barely keep under me
Without collapsing, even leaning
Against a spindly tree. I was not marching.
I was only testifying to an event rather larger
Than me. For half an hour and a few
They kept coming past. It was barely
An echo of the vast metropolitan marches
That afternoon around the tiny planet,
But this was not a town for protest
Against male authority, as a rule, and I
Had friends and loved ones out in it,
Including the daughter with the handmade
Sign saying "Girls are great!!" You never
Forget your first march, someone said.
Can you remember your last, I wondered,
Obsessed as I am with forgetfulness
These days, keeping my recordings
Of every small event and sometimes
Even large ones, such as this frolicsome,
Globally coordinated defiance, such as this.
Somewhere, the forests, the true forests,
Remained infinite and permanent
And guarded by demons hard to resist.
A diarist never knew how things would turn out
But never stopped feeling a few more words,
A few more pictures would allow an answer
To emerge, a good, communal memory to persist.
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