Many wonder about her body,
possibly embalmed or clumped ash
inside white marble. Most hesitate
to ask. Sometimes the eternal flame 
falters. The Watchwoman may wait 
a bit before she tends it. Reverence
is not ritualized or punctual –

and so many visitors, even those
in high heels or cowgirl boots,
know that multitudes still
quietly perform false tricks
for acceptance withheld.

A pamphlet mentions the miscarried, 
the stillborn. Abortions
and those given up for adoption. 
Those taken and never seen again. 
The penultimate line asks
if your mother remains
undiscovered. The last line
is a phone number for 24-hour help. 

Adjacent, on the plaza,
find movable chess queens 
and babies on wheels sculpted 
of pietra gray marble, interactive
sundials for hands-on 
shadow casting and some joy
in slow motion. 
The gnomons. 

Some tour buses don’t stop. 
Vehicles that linger provide a brief 
respite for stretching and relief
from the tour guide’s drone
that includes this caution for the Tomb –
Silence is never necessary.
Respect speaks.
                        

Simple references often follow
the word his – influencer, inspiration, 
amanuensis, sister, wife, mother,
or daughter.

Unacknowledged
in undiscovered symphonies,
unhung paintings, even the lament
involving Wulf and Eadwacer
with no poet’s name. 

Or lost in time, ones who
sold sweet potato pies to 
raise money for civil rights actions,
baked pot brownies for AIDS patients, 
fought arranged marriages, assisted
Tutsis fleeing death in Rwanda, spied
dressed in men’s clothing to confuse
armies, ruled as queens in Nubia,
hefted swords as pirates, organized
farm workers, warned of climate change
in 1856, sneaked onto the road to run
a marathon, discovered a way to treat malaria, 
invented coffee filters, studies volcanos. 
Became firsts. Those who called themselves
Wild Girls and marched as sisters, rode
on white horses and wore star quilts.
Became firsts wearing names
like Ada Lovelace and Youyou Tu.