May 27, 2013

Francine Marie Tolf

EAST ROGERS PARK

Chicago

I dreaded that walk home from the Morse Avenue El stop
to where we lived five blocks away, across Sheridan Road,
at the edge of a park by the lake
where even the trees had graffiti
and kids set off cherry bombs nightly
on a beach strewn with broken bottles and plastic caps.

No supermarkets in that neighborhood
we’d moved into for cheaper rent,
only liquor stores with grillwork across grimy glass,
7-11s stocked with overpriced milk and lunchmeat,
a currency exchange with two cameras,
and a rib joint that served take-out.

Some people had marigolds and geraniums in window boxes
that they cared for meticulously.
Some people cleaned beer cans and Styrofoam plates
from their yards every morning.
I began to recognize them
on my way to the train where I stood on the platform
with black girls who tried to act tough,
hawking up and spitting onto the tracks
where the third rail, the one holding death,
stretched innocuously.
There were Pakistanis in cheaply made business suits
talking Urdu into cell phones,
young mothers in spandex yelling at toddlers in Spanish,
Russian teenagers playing rap music on boom boxes.

Homeless people sometimes slept outside
our first floor dining room window.
I’d go out there on weekends with gloves and a garbage bag
to clean up after the empty pints
and half-eaten fast food they left, things I could not imagine
picking up before I lived there,
used condoms and tampons,
urine-soaked clothing.

I tried not to hate
that neighborhood, but I did, I was
scared we would never get out
and sometimes I thought
why should I, why should I be luckier
than anyone else.

Yet with all the stupid
chances I took, the alleys I cut through at night,
the blocks I should never have walked down,
I was never once bothered
as I’d been in better neighborhoods
where I’d had my breasts grabbed, my purse stolen,
a knife thrust at me one evening
by a man in a brown leather jacket
who got twelve dollars, some change, and all my IDs.

Never, that is, except once
on Morse Avenue, walking past two black men
spread-eagled against a cop’s car
as the officer questioned them
and the usual crowd of gawkers
shuffled and stared,
A Jamaican man with very dark skin
and blazing eyes
stepped in front of me, blocking my way.
Why is it always us they stop
when everyone knows it’s the fucking Russians
who run drugs on this corner,
even someone like you has to know that!

I wish now I had touched
his hand or his shoulder
when I answered him because
I wasn’t frightened, I understood
it wasn’t me, this white woman he’d never met,
who inspired such rage.

But I didn’t, I simply said
I don’t know, I don’t understand
And he let me step past him
with an expression that stays with me—
something damaged beyond repair—
but I didn’t look back
as I headed towards home.

from Rattle #21, Summer 2004

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April 12, 2012

Francine Marie Tolf

MAYBE SHE DREAMS OF RIVERS

I love her because she is exhausted and has fallen asleep on the train
with the book still clutched in one hand
while the other trails the aisle like a willow branch in slow green water.
(Maybe she dreams of rivers.)

Because her shoes are thick-soled sneakers
and she wears a brown shoelace around her neck
strung with keys that rise and fall in a cluster against her breast
as they ride the rhythm of her sleep.
(Maybe she dreams of horses,
maybe her body is gleaming and supple.)

Because her hair is the orange of cheap dyes
and her skin is a blend of browns with freckles adorning
a face that is no longer young,
and her earrings are small bells
that are not silver but are delicate
as the eyelashes that flutter now and then,
as if a slight breeze combed the length of our car.
(Maybe June shimmers inside her,
maybe wind chimes are talking.)

I love her because the title of the book in her lap is How to Create Poetry,
and when she awakens with a start,
she looks down at it before she gathers her packages,
pulls a cap over her ears,
walks out of the train into a wordless winter night.

from Rattle #25, Summer 2006
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