afraid of? Will he crack a window open

in the White House and listen like a little boy

when he thinks no one is watching?

Aunt Vera finishes her speech and steps down

from the podium. She finds me in the crowd.

She’s still thin, but radiant with joy reflected

to and from these women—and I’m

included, right here at the center.

I’m strong enough, she says, to travel home.

(It’s time to get back on the train already?)

But, she adds, I won’t be going. (Why not?)

While I was in prison, my boss sent word

that he’s replaced me. (She lost her job!)

Don’t worry, she assures me. I have savings,

and it won’t be hard to find work

when I get back. But I’ve decided to stay here

in Washington, at least until all the suffrage

prisoners are released. Victory is so close

we can almost touch it! But there’s hard work

ahead of us—I’m needed here now, Muriel.

I’m sorry you came all this way for nothing.

I look out at the crowd—today I’m one small part

of something big. No, Aunt Vera, not for nothing,

I reply. I straighten out my sash, link arms with her

and Ruby, and the three of us walk forward.

Strangers Together / Muriel

Strangers Together

Muriel

Swing low, sweet chariot, comin’ for to carry

me home, a mother in the seat behind me sings

to her baby. The baby cries, then quiets

as the train rocks us, strangers together,

our voices softening as night comes on.

The city noises fade away, and echoes of the

past two weeks collide: young boys selling papers,

Aunt Vera’s speech, Ruby’s gentle Danish accent

as she speaks to the children in her kindergarten class,

or to me—her parting words: Come back and teach with me.

You’re good with children, Muriel. I think of Joey,

then doze off and dream of Grace, stretching

out her hand: When will Muriel come back?

Emma sings, I looked over Jordan, and what

did I see, comin’ for to carry me home?

A band of angels, comin’ after me, comin’ for

to carry me home. But when I wake up, it’s not Emma singing;

it’s the mother behind me, trying to soothe her baby.

I turn around and offer: Shall I hold her awhile

so you can get a little rest? She looks me over:

If she’ll let you, that would be kind.

Her name is Viola Irene. I take the baby

in my arms, awkwardly at first, but her hair

has the same sweet smell I remember

from holding Grace when she was a baby,

and it all comes back. I rock Viola; she smiles

up at me, making little gurgle sounds—she wants

to have a conversation. When she falls asleep at last,

and I return her to her mother, the train