photo (21)…we step up our push-ups.

Our Sunday dare is to do 2 sets of 5 push-ups at the top of every hour. As Lionel Richie says, it’s easy like Sunday morning.

The first set of 5 are your regular push-up. Take a few seconds to sit back, shake your arms out, and say, “I am amazing beyond belief.”  The second set of 5 are one step up from your regular push-up. If you are on your knees, then do the second set of 5 off your knees. If you can almost get your chest to the ground, then the “step up” set is getting your chest all the way to the ground and pausing 1/2 a second. If you have a chest to ground pushup, your “step up” is a clapping pushup.

What’s challenging about this is, of course, doing the push-ups no matter where you are throughout the day. You can stop after 10 hours. Or you can keep on going. Drop a note in the comments letting us know how many hours you managed and where you did your push-ups.

Today’s poem is one we’ve read aloud at different movement gatherings for many, many years, but really this time, this is the year.

Imagine the Angels of Bread
Martín Espada

This is the year that squatters evict landlords,
gazing like admirals from the rail
of the roof deck
or levitating hands in praise
of steam in the shower;
this is the year
that shawled refugees deport judges
who stare at the floor
and their swollen feet
as files are stamped
with their destination;
this is the year that police revolvers,
stove-hot, blister the fingers
of raging cops,
and nightsticks splinter
in their palms;
this is the year
that darkskinned men
lynched a century ago
return to sip coffee quietly
with the apologizing descendants
of their executioners.

This is the year that those
who swim the border’s undertow
and shiver in boxcars
are greeted with trumpets and drums
at the first railroad crossing
on the other side;
this is the year that the hands
pulling tomatoes from the vine
uproot the deed to the earth that sprouts the vine,
the hands canning tomatoes
are named in the will
that owns the bedlam of the cannery;
this is the year that the eyes
stinging from the poison that purifies toilets
awaken at last to the sight
of a rooster-loud hillside,
pilgrimage of immigrant birth;
this is the year that cockroaches
become extinct, that no doctor
finds a roach embedded
in the ear of an infant;
this is the year that the food stamps
of adolescent mothers
are auctioned like gold doubloons,
and no coin is given to buy machetes
for the next bouquet of severed heads
in coffee plantation country.

If the abolition of slave-manacles
began as a vision of hands without manacles,
then this is the year;
if the shutdown of extermination camps
began as imagination of a land
without barbed wire or the crematorium,
then this is the year;
if every rebellion begins with the idea
that conquerors on horseback
are not many-legged gods, that they too drown
if plunged in the river,
then this is the year.

So may every humiliated mouth,
teeth like desecrated headstones,
fill with the angels of bread.