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Another poem - if you can stand it Marguerite Rivas sipoet marguer161@aol.com (Untitled)

This island is a woman who is corseted tight
hemmed round with rusty hulks and tankers
who walks the Terrace at one in the morning
with toddlers in tow sing-songing numbers
to keep the fear and pit bulls at bay.

She is seranaded by crickets at the shore,
in the hills and in the deep woods of Annadale
This island is a woman whose eyes are bandaged
like the broken down projects are boarded without hope, without daylight.

This island is a woman whose sons bop
to music in their heads, from car radios
of hip hop whiteboys who speed past them
as they lean from fourth floor walk-ups above stifling storefront
folding chairs outside on a summer night --
agasp in Stapleton.

This island is a woman who whores on streets
where Vanderbilt built his landing
for ferries, for commerce, for proving to his mother
that he had a budding manhood
and its name was money.


(More to come).



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