Nay, do not blush! I only heard

   You had a mind to marry;

I thought I’d speak a friendly word,

   So just one moment tarry.

Wed not a man whose merit lies

   In things of outward show,

In raven hair or flashing eyes,

   That please your fancy so.

But marry one who’s good and kind,

   And free from all pretence;

Who, if without a gifted mine,

   At least has common sense.

Is it because I burned the potatoes? 
The lady’s hat from last night had feathers, 
usually that’s the best thing about a lady, 
we’re only supposed to have five things. 
She sang with wild horses in her stomach, 
galloping through ale barrels and cabbages, 
it never occurred to me she was hiding, 
she was not the one in the grubby apron. 
I want to cloak my skin in a stolen night, 
hunt bloated rubies in carriages on the moor, 
you are vexed I neglected the potatoes, 
let the fire crackle and smoke hum for hours, 
the dishes survived, the bed, the stale bread, 
precious mutton still fat on a fragile bone. 

I.

Suffrage:

In late middle English

intercessory prayers,

a series of petitions.

Not the right—but the hope.

Universal:

applicable to all cases—

except those marginalized

and unnamed.

A belief, but not a fact.

II.

In the trombone slide of history

I hear the suffer in suffragette

the uni uni uni in universal—

each excluded ikwe: women

from five hundred tribal nations

mindimooyenh or matriarchs

of ancient flourishing cultures

still disenfranchised by race,

still holding our world together

in the dusky and lawless violence

manifest in colonial america.

Twenty-six million american women

at last granted the right to vote.

Oh, marginal notes in the sweet anthem

of equality, Indigenous non-citizens

turn to the older congress of the sun

seek in the assembled stories of sky

a steady enlightenment—natural laws

(the mathematics of bending trees,

sistering of nutrients—maizebeanssquash,

or wintering wisdom of animal relatives)

each seasonal chorus colored with resilience—

earth voices rising in sacred dream songs.

Even now listen, put on the moon-scored

shell of turtle, wear this ancient armour

of belonging. In the spiral of survivance

again harvest the amber sap of trees

follow the scattered path of manoomin

the wild and good seed that grows on water.

Oh water, oh rice, oh women of birch dreams

and baskets, gather. Here reap and reseed

raise brown hands trembling holy with endurance.

Now bead land knowledge into muklaks

sign with the treaty X of exclusion.

Kiss with fingers and lips the inherited

woodland flutes and breathy cedar songs.

Say yea, eya, and yes. Here and here cast

your tended nets—oh suffered and sweetly mended

nets of abundance. This year and each to follow

choose, not by paper but by pathway, a legacy:

woman’s work—our ageless ballad of continuance.