I Saw Marsha P. Johnson

Written by Em F ‘25

I saw Marsha P. Johnson walking down the street to her shelter.

a mother to the young queers who found refuge there 

like she found solidarity on Greenwich Avenue — 

with overwhelming need.

from her crown of flowers, I knew her.

daisies, bright and vibrant

sweet rebellion against the dull, gray street.

roses, to complete Christ’s crown of thorns,

red, holy with the blood spilt for love.

I called her name, and she turned to look, 

her strong gaze searching my intentions

like a hand hovering over a wound.

Finding warmth, she returned it abundantly, lovingly 

before she even spoke.

she said, darling our sisters need us, 

and now is our time to act.

she said, we must take care of each other,

all of each other. 

that’s what we’re here for anyway, 

because there isn’t such a thing as half-liberation.

don’t you see?

yes. yes, I see.

I looked in her eyes and she looked in mine.

darling, our sisters need us

I looked at her, and she was dignified.

beaten, her bruises worn without the shadow of shame.

not a ruthless scavenger for light, for life, for food, for love — 

with grace, she recognized it all around her, 

amid her struggle she reached her hand out and 

grasped it — light in glass shards on the sidewalk, life in the surge for progress, 

love in the eyes of her family, blood and otherwise.

oh, she struggled, but

it kept her running, not crawling,

and she gave it all back, the sustenance.

at night, she had work to do, the bullet to bite,

men to meet in places I couldn’t follow her to.

she left 

and they found her in the Hudson.

another Black body in the river

one less transvestite in the streets

suicide, they said

pay it no mind