As hard as these times are, with the onslaught of the Trump/Musk wrecking ball, we've been through this before.

The success of the Womxn's March of 2017 should remind us that we know a lot about how to demand and defend our rights. Back then, the shock of having a president who boasted of sexual assault brought out the pussy hats and protests in defense of protections for women.

To honor that peaceful nationwide protest, we focus this month on women's work, from an anthology called Raising Lilly Ledbetter: Women Poets Occupy the Workspace (Carolyne Wright, M. L. Lyons, Eugenia Toledo, eds. Lost Horse Press, Sandpoint, ID, 2015). Ledbetter fought against pay discrimination after discovering that for years her male colleagues were paid 30% more than she was. Her story — how hard she fought through the courts; how she won, then lost appeals; how Barak Obama's first act as president in 2009 was to sign equal compensation into law — gave women fair pay for the first time in American history.

So guess what? Trump froze the equal compensation law in August 2017. Are we surprised?

Womxn and allies: it's time to march again, and the women in these poems will be marching right beside us.

Circle of Silence
Stacy K. Vargas

Like an electron trapped in an unstable orbit, I am seated in a circle
of powerful men.
In an awkward moment small talk ends and the meeting abruptly begins.
The superintendent turns to me and says, "This was not sexual harassment."
I turn to the inspector general and say, "After everything you heard
in this investigation, you find this acceptable?"
The inspector general turns to my department head but remains silent.
My department head turns to the chief of staff but remains silent.
The chief of staff turns to the superintendent but remains silent.
The superintendent turns to me and says, "This is my decision and it's final."
I turn to the inspector general and ask, "Don't you have anything to say?"
The inspector general turns to my department head but remains silent.
My department head turns to the chief of staff but remains silent.
The chief of staff turns to the superintendent but remains silent.
I am trapped in a cycle of muted men
Like an electron transitioning from its ground state to a higher energy level. I
break away from the circle of silence.
Why can't they?

Another Day at the Dildo Factory
Lytton Bell

Twenty immigrants in
twenty hairnets
are painting veins on
twenty prosthetic penises

The penises had ceased to seem shocking
to them after just one eight-hour shift,
even to the Catholics,
and they disregarded them, gossiping
and chatting amongst themselves
as if it were only
the paper factory or the ideology factory instead

The penises, molded in a malleable rubber
sway a little
when you touch them
as if to ask:

What are you doing to me?
Where are you sending me?
What will I be doing one week from today?
What is my purpose in the world?
Is there a God?

Finally, one worker says
to one of the penises
Don't ask me, I just work here; I'm only
making minimum wage.

Kyrie Pantokrator
Sharon Cumberland

The world was not for me, but for my brothers,
the horses, the science kits, the classrooms,
the rough training for the world. which was not
for me, but for my husbands, the work, the money
the camaraderie over drinks and waitresses, which
was not for me but for my fathers, the wives, the tidy
homes and waiting children, the warm bed,
which was not for me.
I beat the chest of my soul.

The clear path was not for me but for the scions,
the boys of promise and grace, their football fields,
the locker room and all its promises, which was not
for me but for the scholars, their tutors, the books
and allowances, the mighty potential, which
was not for me but for the junior partners,
their swaddles of opportunity, the slap on the back,
which was not for me.
I bite the tongue of my mind.

The audience was not for me but for the speakers,
their podiums and printing presses, the bull horns which
were not for me but for the soldiers, their flags and taxes,
the guns and petroleum, their certainty of righteousness
which was not for me but for the kings, the popes, the presidents,
their parades and treasure, their chest of ribbons,
which was not for me.
I brandish the fist of my bowels.

The Church was not for me but for the Adams,
the ones that look like You in their secret bodies,
like the Father and the suffering Son in his ribs
and rags, which were not for me but for the saints,
their faith and miracles. Only the martyrs,
their persecutions, their resistance, the hopes
of forgiveness for their jealousy, their cowardice,
their despair, Pantokrator, are for me.
I bend the knee of my heart.