I stand in a cell for suffrage.
I sit, I succumb to sleep.

I am sensible of grasses,
the structure of grasses,
how grasses affect bison,
and therefore, us.

My stomach clamps down
to the size of an egg.
I’m beyond hunger now.

I think about grasses,
study grasses from this cell,
stuffed with suffering for suffrage,
my sisters sighing like grasses.

I imagine someday sorting grasses
in the fields, thinking of this cell
only sometimes, only sporadically,
shakily. The grasses stop me
from becoming despondent.
They save me from despair.