Architects

I am the boy in the backyard at dusk,
throwing spirals to a tree that never drops the ball.

My father’s old jersey hangs past my knees.
I practice the commentary in my head:
“He’s got daylight, he’s got speed—”

Every completion matters.
Every incompletion is film I’ll study later.

The NFL is eleven years away.
The NFL is right now.

I am the girl with the poster of Valentina Tereshkova
taped above my bed, her face half-shadow, half-stars.

I calculate trajectories while my classmates calculate gossip.

My notebook margins: escape velocity equations,
fuel-to-weight ratios,
the exact angle of re-entry that means coming home alive.

The moon has no women’s footprints yet.

I am the tenor in the back row of the high school choir,
sight-reading Verdi when I should be learning calculus.

My voice cracks on the high B-flat.
Again. And again.

Ms. Rodriguez says, “Pavarotti cracked too, at first.”

I don’t know if that’s true.
I choose to believe it anyway.

The empty auditorium after practice—
that’s where I sing the arias.

I am the young woman practicing my walk
in a hotel room at 2 AM,
heels clicking on carpet that muffles everything.

They’ll ask me about world peace.
They always ask about world peace.

What I want to say:
I’ve been building a nonprofit for three years.
I’ve read every policy brief on education reform.
This sash is a platform, not a prize.

What I’ll say:
Something shorter. Something that fits in a soundbite.

I am the disabled vet in the statehouse corridor,
wheeling past the portraits of men who walked these halls before me.

My policy aide reads me the latest polling numbers.
“They don’t think you can win.”

I’ve heard that before.
Once about surviving. Once about walking again.
Once about passing the bar exam.

The White House is twelve years away.
The White House is here.

I am the painter standing before the empty canvas at dawn,
coffee cooling in a chipped mug,
brushes still soaking from last night’s failure.

The color I need doesn’t exist yet.
I’ll have to mix it—
cadmium yellow, alizarin crimson, something else.

The masterpiece is out there.

Today I get closer.

We are the early mornings and late nights.

We are the practice no one sees,
the drafts no one reads,
the miles run before sunrise.

We are worn jerseys, taped posters, cracked voices,
hotel carpets, wheelchair treads, empty canvases.

We are the question: “What if?”

We are the answer: “Watch me.”

We are here.

We are building.