they’d have a thousand picketers

from all around the country on their hands.

A quiet fury gathers in the room. Vera,

Mrs. Ellis says, women—and some men—

from all around the country are on their way

to Washington right now. We’re marching

to protest this kind of treatment, and to continue

our demand for freedom. Tomorrow afternoon,

you will be cheered to know, we’ll be

at least one thousand strong.

How Close Can I Go? / Emma

How Close Can I Go?

Emma

Hands on her hips, Mother stands firm, blocking

the doorway. I don’t want you going over there, Emma.

Grace is quarantined for up to two weeks. Only her mother

and Dr. Brower (not her father, not Ollie) are allowed in her room.

I understand how my mother feels: I’m all she has left. She can’t bear

the thought of losing another child. But that’s almost the same way I feel

about Grace. How close can I go? I ask. Mother knits her brows. Don’t cross

the creek, Emma. Mrs. Jones died last night. They’ve closed the school. This moss-

covered rock by the water is as close as I can be to Grace; I’m trying to heal

her from here with these simple songs I sing. I don’t know if she can hear

them; it may be too cold to open her window. Muriel will be home soon.

She doesn’t know that now it’s her sister who’s sick, and her brother

trying his best to hold things together. I’d planned dinner and a

“Welcome Home” party. Now, instead, I sit alone, rocking.

One Thousand Women / Muriel

One Thousand Women

Muriel

One thousand women, representing

every corner of the country, march together

to the White House, wearing white, with

gold-and-purple sashes, carrying our banners:

THE TIME HAS COME TO CONQUER

OR SUBMIT. THERE CAN BE BUT ONE CHOICE.

WE HAVE MADE IT. I stand a little taller

and walk on. TO ASK FREEDOM

FOR WOMEN IS NOT A CRIME. SUFFRAGE PRISONERS

SHOULD NOT BE TREATED AS CRIMINALS.

(A man holds one side of that one.) Aunt Vera

stands up at a podium, the crowd quiets,

and she speaks. They’ve tried to silence us

by every means they know of—our voices

are still strong. They’ve tried to hold us

in their prison cells—our spirit

is stronger than their bars. They’ve tried

to force food down our throats—we have not

accepted it, any more than we accept

the old, worn-out idea that women are

the weaker sex. The crowd erupts in cheers.

They don’t have enough prison cells

to hold us. Their words are not true enough

to silence us. We are their mothers, sisters,

daughters—here today, one thousand

women strong—our voices will be heard.

President Wilson drives by but doesn’t stop,

or even pause to look our way! What is he