In the beginning there was a national park bathroom.

Women crossed through dark oak arches

into cinder block stalls. Some with children clinging

to their hips- some with legs so vibrantly inked

it looked like stockings glossing their skin-

some with heaving chests and tearsoaked scarves. 

I don’t know what these women have seen. 

I know their children might have hungry 

bellies and their father’s eyes.

I know their bodies have been judged 

by those who can’t see art in their own souls.

I know their mother, who just called to check in

hand knitted their mittens and scarves. 

I know these women, and they are good.