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2013 poetry chapbook How a Bullet
Behaves
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Lullaby
Cara Losier Chanoine
Every Wednesday night,
Mama takes the train
into the big city
to sing jazz to the rich people.
Every time,
I ask if I can come and
every time,
she tells me no.
Mama likes to wear sweaters,
and long skirts that cover her legs.
Her hair, she pulls into a French twist.
On Wednesdays, Mama wears
a green satin dress
with black lace that tickles
at the flesh above her knees.
When her hair comes down,
it curls around her face in a red haze,
like something alive.
On Wednesday nights,
Mama looks like a movie star.
It’s early Thursday morning,
one or two,
when she comes home.
When I ask her to sing to me,
Mama sings church hymns,
high and sweet,
while her hair gleams red
as an old rooster’s comb.
After she takes the late bus home
from the big city,
Mama comes into my room
and even though it’s dark,
I can see the glint of her dress,
the moon tone of her bare legs.
Mama pushes back my hair
and then she sings; not God’s music,
but the low, smoky sounds of a world
that comes to me in bits and pieces.
I close my eyes,
afraid that she will see their reflection
and stop because I’m awake.
With my eyes sealed shut,
all I can do is listen.