Jacqueline Trimble: Poet of the Week
What if the Supreme Court Were Really the Supremes?
Oh, how their bedazzled robes glisten
as they glide into the courtroom,
open wide their satin-gloved arms, flutter
their long, store-bought eyelashes
and croon, “My world is empty without you, babe.”
Even Cindy Birdsong envies their hips
as they pop and sway, dip and snap.
Each one a lady.
Would these judges made new
by the rhythm and the blues,
the ooh, ooh baby magic of a Motown spell,
ever hold the sequined fish of my voting rights
above their lovely bouffant heads,
tip its iridescent scales toward the camera,
then gut it, like a dinner trout?