Juliet Grant

Preamble

What is democracy to you?

Is it a flag of red, white, and blue waving in the air on the back of your pickup truck while complaining to the administrators that immigrants are "infiltrating" your kid's school?

I'm so mad I can hardly write poetry anymore, 

every word rushes out and tumbles down, 

knocking the inside of my skull, 

a dull roar that follows me to school and home again. 

I will kneel on broken glass as 

my blood stains the pearly sheen so that 

you will see I've resorted to my last option: begging 

before you (as a woman should be) to rip 

I am eleven years old. I think freedom isn't what they say it is. 

I live in the land of the free. I am free 

in most ways. 

I can be a black belt. 

I can be a published poet.