The Lessons
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The old woman’s stories can only be corroborated by the dead
Cut glass the shapes of women’s bodies
Contain a cast of loose lipped spirits
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Phantom jars
Her mother’s treasures
We’ve heard she keeps them next to the money
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All remains untouchable
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What we know
Collected rumors Remnants of tales
Holes as deep as the pores we inherited
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Our collaborations fall prey to her moods
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Questions
sometimes our birthright
sometimes our betrayal
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What we know
Fragmented bone
Planted into rows
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Raised from our scalps
Stretching our eyelids
Tightening our jaws
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Our history folds from her tongue
As she speaks we know ourselves
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As she speaks the sun surrenders
What we know eludes us
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Some Songs
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Some songs some truth touches some voices
They reach in through your chest without permission
Hold it open like Hanuman standing
Staring you down
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A sting from the ear to that place where there is no name
That pain strategically placed escapes
Saved scars scramble back
The unleashed heart heaves in the streets
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Old wounds run down
Like April sleet in Chicago
One note
Three droplets drown the back
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An icy sliver that touches bone
And there’s no way to warm
*
A suicidal seagull skims on its belly across the top of an El Train
Skids
Then sets itself to relaunch
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A fatalistic pigeon flings itself up against the rain
Into a car at the cross walk
Trying to escape a dog on a leash
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What’s playing It’s that Usher song “Climax”
And I don’t even like Usher
And break up songs make me gag
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There’s no love like that here for me
Like the seagull I listen and let it loose
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Imagine my heart cobbled beneath stone feet
Knowing I’ll only regret
Looking at the mangled little thing
*
I wish I could shut my heart down like one of those abandoned factories you see
On the way to Michigan
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Through South Chicago Through Indiana
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Still Pale blue and grey towers Leaned up against the lake
Leaded broken window panes in patterns that cut light and shadow
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Sledge hammers and soiled back braces left in place
As if everyone suddenly stopped in the middle of the day
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Then sulked away silent And left them standing Still ready to work
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Brown paper sack lunches stankin’ still in the refrigerator
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Crib sheets and completion logs hang on clipboards
Between thick dried out strips of paint
Fainting from the wall
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Hardhats scattered in the hall
Head prints almost still sweating
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Letting Go
For My Mother
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These mountains are bigger than Death
In her pretty red shoes
Bigger than the women who came
To escort you in their
Bumpy Johnson era dresses
One with a book, one with a watch
* Ellsworth Raymond “Bumpy” Johnson (October 31, 1905- July 7, 1968) was an African American gangster and community member in Harlem in the 1930’s & 1940’s

Marguerite L. Harrold has an MFA from Columbia College Chicago. She was nominated for the 2020 Pushcart Prize and an Illinois Arts Council Grant. Her poems can be found in: The Chicago Review: The Black Arts Movement in Chicago Special Issue, VINYL Poetry, Pulpmouth, The Matador Review