 I'm going to read a poem I wrote about Juana Briones, who is a foremother of San Francisco, that if you don't know who she is, please find out. Juana Briones, truth in the negatives. No photos of Juana Briones, no silver-plated impression from copper sheet, no third dimension of eyebrow and temple emerging from mercury and darkness. Only pieces of her life in glass cases as evidence, rusted long scissors, paper piles, a shawl folded into the smallest portion of itself. To recreate her image, steal her rocks piled in the archive, take them to her at Washington Square. There among the ghosts of poets and bohemians and Italians, her dress, a needle and thread trailing at the long-winded seams will give her away. Unconcerned with herself, she will devise the offering into walls for the tented residents overflowing from the same city that sectioned off native and Mexican-Americans into gold rush residue. Less than 1% of historical landmarks for women, but an iron plaque in her honor stamps the name of an indigenous African Spanish woman who owned land, raised children by herself, cultivated healing, served others, and conducted business on a concrete bench you can sit on. 2014 San Francisco now boasts one landmark for a woman. Streams in front of us like transparent plastic film, variations of gray instead of brown condo complexes, many cities of a historical wealth pushing into the sky out of concrete slabs that resemble tombstones. As the most beautiful city turns into an internet labyrinth with no beginning, no end. Thank you.