I was a grocery girl before I read Ginsburg

and these days I’m thinking about banking —

soothing the wealth of the rich right into

my own pocket, with their grateful nods

to my sacred touch like double-hand dice.

Perhaps something else — so many chances

for my genius greatness grandest glorious

mind that can lose itself alliteratively.

I tip my hat to you ladies who marched for me,

though it seems the most tread oppositely

of whichever way I vote,

if we still wore hats or anybody tipped them.

Even to you more recent wonderfems,

even the ones who saved my sisters

from being wives to make them whores,

from being cooks to make them fools.

I’m sure you meant well, sugars —

daresay I’ll be all of the above,

all above what and where you ever dreamed

we could. I will bank not to out-bank a bank

but to make bankers wish they could

forget like me, bake like me, break like me

away from lick-addled siren success.

Then I will litigate — litigate both for and against

you or he or she — litigate, literate that I am,

in iamb and rhyme and doubletime

be home, retired like Salinger in his

New England den of ornery ordinary.

I was born in California and have made it

to California. I know my own name.