my mother,
who dressed me in hand-me-down dogma
shreds cabbage over the kitchen sink:
           "We could have saved the child,
           saved the world,
           saved the Rosenbergs."

Milk rages in its saucepan,
knocks against its sides,
foams up around the lid.

Mother, you raged too,
knocking your picket sign
against barred doors.

While the boarders passed air and potatoes
you passed petitions,
boycotted Bayer's, prayed:
           Remember the Forgotten Man,
           The Hollywood 10,
           The Scottsboro Boys
           Blessed-be-they-amen.

Standing in Times Square,
you were my tree,
a placard sprouting from your upraised arm.

Shivering, I'd rest my head against your hip
until you'd scoop me up and cry:
"Look! We do it for our children."

Under your down-turned picket sign propped up against a
    wall,
you sheltered me from rain and raised me in the shadow of
    the Cause.