I’m Leah Umansky and I’m reading a poem from Dena Rush Guzman’s book Joseph called “Meet the Boss, Joseph.”

Meet the boss, Joseph

This is law for me, my small state, 

natural. A reputation. I’m proud.

I listened to my constituent.

I’m leaning to the left and

I'm standing like a man

and I'm ooh. I’m ah, baby.

I'm gonna be fine. I am a farmer,

I am Vermont. I am a punk-ass rebel.

I am the reason. I am the sheriff,

the congress, the queen.

I am Ruth Bader Ginsburg

In charge of the world.

I am the constitution.

The law is you can't live here,

can't fly your flag, can't afford the ticket

anywhere but out of my sight.

You are banned. I am nightmares,

I am mine. I am giving free money

to my people; my arm, my appendix,

my ass. I am a fat food bank & 

a wallet full of food stamps.

I buy M&Ms with them.

I buy steak, lobster and truffle salt.

I put my babies in daycare.

I stay home drinking beer.

I put my men into early graves

& laugh all night over their lost hammers,

their big noses, their masculine wiles.

I am my own daddy,

my own car & driver,

my own highway system,

my own bridge across the ocean.

I am naked joy while the sun burns your eyes.

I am a black car with tinted windows,

The CEO of this corporation, the boss.

I am my own border, my own border guard,

my own border guard’s fun hole,

my own barbed wire fence.

You’ll never cross me again.