The scratching of a pencil

on college-ruled paper,

in my weathered history notebook,

is louder than any shout.

These endless notes,

every violent chapter,

every overused word.

I wonder how our history would have gone,

if the men with deep pockets

did not have such a high horse to sit on,

or such a privilege that guaranteed their power.

How would history have gone 

if we respected those who lived here first?

If we saw women as more than mothers

and had enough compassion to open our borders?

If we had enough respect for the planet who provided for us

and enough perspective to accept

the different ways we feel love?

That is a useless query now,

what’s done is done.

Now, all that is left,

is the endless sound

of a tired pencil scratching.

On my paper,

and in my head.