12-year-old Gloria from El Paso crosses, uncrosses baby-soft legs. Excuse her child’s wailing and the greasy hair, she’s new to motherhood. Leaked Supreme Court drafts electrify small lives, rippling shock waves that transmit over a paralyzed nation. 

Who is deciding now? Who gets to pass the glistening BATON over our bodies? Oh, yes. The forefathers of our country have dictated yet again that we must stay in our LANE. Safety net no more. It’s free fall time, baby. 

Oh, how are we honored, venerated when we bring forth those beautiful baby boys, destined to become world leaders, political activists, and radical change-makers. Metallic bile rises in my mouth; these same beautiful baby boys have begun to cry power. 

Bodies emerge from seas of amniotic fluid. Oh, how we are trashed away. 

BODILY MECHANISMS assembled, one by one, for a never-ending queue. Next! I stand ready in line or I take back what’s mine. 

Woven down from the endometrium which pillows, swaddles the uterus, a personal haven. Mine. 

In the HEAT of people whose throats are hoarse, nevertheless, moths are drawn to a singular flame. Protests deaf to the congested traffic and officers, armed with plastic shields and vigilant eyes. 

Nation-wide STRIKES, rain or shine; this is the STRAIGHTAWAY, the last LAP, the final LEG, the urgency to trample and secure the FINISH LINE. 

Run, girl. We’re in the LEAD. Don’t rest on your laurels. Hear those feet pounding from behind you, remember, this is a chase. In a SPLIT-SECOND, everything can change. 

When will we come in first? Your mother. Your sister. Your daughter. Your niece. The woman in front of you at the checkout line. A broken record. 

Tell me you don’t understand. Explain to Gloria that she should be spending her Friday night in a playground, not in a dusty chair in Planned Parenthood in some foreign sanctuary city.

In this RACE, look forward. None of us can afford to turn back.