The Lessons
>
>
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
>
Phantom jars
Her mother’s treasures
We’ve heard she keeps them next to the money
>
All remains untouchable
>
What we know
Collected rumors Remnants of tales
Holes as deep as the pores we inherited
>
Our collaborations fall prey to her moods
>
Questions
sometimes our birthright
sometimes our betrayal
>
What we know
Fragmented bone
Planted into rows
>
Raised from our scalps
Stretching our eyelids
Tightening our jaws
>
Our history folds from her tongue
As she speaks we know ourselves
>
As she speaks the sun surrenders
What we know eludes us
>
>
Some Songs
>
Some songs some truth touches some voices
They reach in through your chest without permission
Hold it open like Hanuman standing
Staring you down
>
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
>
Old wounds run down
Like April sleet in Chicago
One note
Three droplets drown the back
>
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
>
A fatalistic pigeon flings itself up against the rain
Into a car at the cross walk
Trying to escape a dog on a leash
>
What’s playing It’s that Usher song “Climax”
And I don’t even like Usher
And break up songs make me gag
>
There’s no love like that here for me
Like the seagull I listen and let it loose
>
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
>
Through South Chicago Through Indiana
>
Still Pale blue and grey towers Leaned up against the lake
Leaded broken window panes in patterns that cut light and shadow
>
Sledge hammers and soiled back braces left in place
As if everyone suddenly stopped in the middle of the day
>
Then sulked away silent And left them standing Still ready to work
>
Brown paper sack lunches stankin’ still in the refrigerator
>
Crib sheets and completion logs hang on clipboards
Between thick dried out strips of paint
Fainting from the wall
>
Hardhats scattered in the hall
Head prints almost still sweating
>
>
Letting Go
For My Mother
>
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