Not My Story to Tell
He kept asking
Hot tub juice steamed as my ass hit air
Balanced over the shoulder of a hulking boy from Palatine
All I knew about him could fit on the wings of a fly
I remember saying “No”
He had to help me stand up
Legs lost in the spinning
In the bathroom
He was already naked
Somehow with a condom on I think
Some of it felt good as a body craves heat
Then waves of vodka soaked skin rolled me like a phantom limb dragged out by a tide
Ripped
It felt bad
My breath lost in muffled currents
Bobbing for air
Under him
Everything disappeared into a thin line of blue
I don’t remember how
I got into each position
Each place
How he maneuvered me
I do remember him asking as a hovering shadow
Still shallow breathing
Still spinning out
Are you a lesbian now?
Are you?
Are you still a lesbian?
I remembers saying, Yes!
Calliope
1.
What does it feel like to be the muse of an artist with no imagination?
Like a run with a gun in your mouth
Silver bullies titties and teeth slipping out
His jealousy pulls on pieces of what has been unopened
Postcard poems
Stashed obsessions
Shadowed anxiety smeared across the wall
The singer wails echoes in another’s voice
Because he likes to watch me work and reassemble
He picks apart the frailness of flowers
So they will love him
So they will ask for his autograph
He rapes my mind while he fucks me
And puts it all in a song
2.
His tongue’s talking is taken through another’s breath
Over my shoulder he rips my arm off trying to read my thoughts steal my journal
& tell everyone he is the magic
It’s my fault they believe
Actually I am more Fairy than motivation
To be a Fate would have been more logical
They don’t love the way I do
Each crush etched in script uninterrupted
My wrath wrinkled weakened sentiment sprinkled colored liquorish cracked against the sky
I could not turn him into a Magpie
Why torture the birds
Why punish all humanity with his imitative voice because of my frailties
I would not shame Ares
I could not save Orpheus either
3.
I slash and burn my own hands daily
Clumsily cutting paper
Making lanterns to replace the light I stole for my love
He locked me up
Then used my gifts to grapple and grab power from the blood of our people
Golden flecks still stain my fingers from centuries of grasping at the bars
His vanity far outweighed his prowess
Proud pretty boys have a way with wit that wins over even the most clever
Making amends means mentoring the most unscripted souls
One’s I rescued when I pleaded for my sons’ life
For his love
For his wife
And like the ones who plagiarize the pathos of others and call it inspiration
I am plagued by the fear of being recognized as a fraud
Young Buck (or Millennials)
Soggy in Vermont
Slippery mist fell on the mountain
Like slick confetti in miniature
Wisps of wet grass whirled into each droplet
Wishing the wind
Would be her forever friend
Grief seeped through June’s green galoshes
Still wearing her October sweater
She swears she can do Autumn better
Never satisfied
Never certain that what she is
Is enough
Mismanaging emotions
Making mis-steps all along the trail
Maneuvering man-sized molten rock
She made memories of things that haven’t happened yet
Made new meaning of dreams and guilt-ridden tarots
Greeted ghosts who tore through good intentions
She touched every tree
Trying to stabilize
Touch rock
Touch stone
They say
Touch wood
Marguerite L. Harrold‘s work is a revolutionary act of kindness, gratitude, agitation and community mobilization. Her poems thread the ecology of being human through urban and rural landscapes, in order to explore the ways in which we connect to place, dislocation and to one another. She earned a Masters of Fine Art in Creative Writing (with Honors) from Columbia College Chicago. Marguerite was nominated for the 2020 Pushcart Prize. She is a member of the Community of Writers at Squaw Valley and attended the Bread Loaf Orion Environmental Writer’s Conference. Recently she retired from the Chicago Department of Public Health after 20 years of service in HIV Prevention and Environmental Health. She is currently pursuing Poetry and Naturalist work while she travels the world.