Three poems

Joan Mazza

Photo: Natascha Graham

Courage

I like to think my home would have been one
shelter on the Underground Railroad, that I
would have spoken out against Nazis, would have
hidden Jews in my basement, barn, or attic.
Wouldn’t I have asked Joe McCarthy if he had
no sense of decency long before Joseph N. Welch
said it? I would have given up my seat to Rosa Parks,
would have marched in D.C. for jobs and freedom
in 1963, but my parents never would have allowed
me. I like to think I’m brave, gutsy enough to speak
out against that professor who shamed a young
woman in graduate school, brought her to tears
when we all looked shocked and gazed horrified

down at our hands in our laps, said nothing.
True, I smiled at racist jokes, at graphic, sexist
jokes my boss told me behind the closed door
of microbiology. We were alone. I needed that job.
I had seen him single out technicians, stalk and badger
them until they melted down and quit. After
defending a woman at a meeting, I knew I would
be next. So I hung back, kept silent, found
my girlish giggle, sure I’d be more courageous
when I didn’t need the job, didn’t need a reference,
the money, or the health insurance that job provided.
Isn’t it easier to be fearless, to live with integrity
when you’re rich and independent? Isn’t it?

What would justice look like?

                       for Valley Haggard, who asked

I want to hear the doctor say,
I was wrong. I’m sorry.

I say, List the ways you were wrong.

He looks me in the eye, specifies:
My saying you were paranoid about the liar
who wanted to marry you. He lied about
his name and age and children. I knew
his history of lies and didn’t shield you.
I allied myself with him because he was
a man. I urged you to stay with him.

What else? I demand.

I harmed you with my advice, could
have harmed you more if you’d followed
more of it. I discounted your preferences,
mocked your well-founded fear and caution.
I kept you feeling insecure, highlighted your
weaknesses and flaws to keep you paying me.

You did. What else?

He says,
I wanted money and more money, to have
power and control over you and others.
I drained trust funds and insurance. I was
a voyeur, relishing your sexy stories.
I’m sorry. I was wrong.

I say,
I want you to worry, to lose sleep, to feel
the deep remorse and guilt you never did.

I did feel it. Too late to tell you. I’m sorry.

I wish you weren’t dead so I could give
you hell. I’m having my say in print.
A bestseller would look like justice.

Homeless in Chicago

Coldest days in a long time, coldest
ever where Annalyn has a little shack
of cardboard, tin roofing, one side open.
She says she’s blessed by God this winter
with blankets. Someone stole them
plus all her jackets last year. Black knit cap,
a little holey, but it serves, layers of sweaters,
boots too big. Most of her teeth missing,
she relies on oatmeal for meals when she has
power in her extension cord. Nowhere
for her to go, four children scattered
like dandelion seeds on a summer breeze.
She swears she’s aware, heeds warnings
of wind chills, plunging temps. I’ll be okay,
she says. I always am. She’s sixty, looks
eighty, doesn’t know there’s no blanket
in this world can hold her heat at twenty
below. Hey, Bezos. Whatcha gonna do?