Jacqueline Trimble: Poet of the Week

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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?

Jacqueline Trimble’s Poets Tour Profile