Monotype by Leslie Weissman
There are no more brooms to burn.
No more truncated truces.
Tin men play chicken with cowardly lions,
a hostile force has taken control.
A raft of bodies.
Flowers grow in tear gas canisters,
bees drink sweat from our brains
huddled in a square-foot garden
goatskin bags filled with dust,
overcast clouds and rain.
But hold on, Dorothy.
We’ll get you home.
There’s this thing called compromise,
the way lovers make room for each other
on a wooden bench.
The truth is, women are life insiders,
know how everything begins and ends.
So click your heels.
Play a rainbow defense—
Roll one for the Lollypop Guild!
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