shatterproof

by Jill Crainshaw

(almost four years ago) 

class a farm team ball game 

a mid-sized southern city 

girl in yellow crocs 

toddler size 11 

“Oh, say can you see?” 

her hand over her heart 

scrutinizing a standard star-showered 

stalwart and still 

while summer cicadas whirred and thrummed 

“What so proudly we hailed.” 

my phone buzzes the news 

glass dome fragmenting 

“first woman nominated by a major party” 

while a hometown soprano soloes 

“At the twilight’s last gleaming.” 

does she see, this croc-clad citizen? 

the spangled signpost unfurling 

a wished-upon possibility too-long postponed 

“O’er the land of the free 

and the home of the brave.” 

(today) 

she wears red converse high tops now

youth size six 

“Oh, say can you see?” 

eyes scrutinize a cloudy night sky 

for wished-upon dreams 

given another rain check 

“I thought there was room for me.” 

(four more years) 

she longs to walk through 

sharp shattered shards 

but the glass gleams rock hard

slippery as winter ice 

“O’er the land of the free 

and the home of the brave” 

(“I pinky-promise”) 

she persists. “Madam President” i whisper into 

the breath of the soaring anthem

long-muted voices rise up with mine

arch the glacial canopy

until it breaks loose and

we become galaxies of wished-upon

stars beating our fiery wings

flying—finally—fierce and free

* * * * *

Jill Crainshaw is a professor at Wake Forest University School of Divinity in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. She enjoys exploring how words give voice to unexpected ideas, insights and visions.