I posted this poem last year about the St. Valentine's Day Massacre in Chicago, but repeat it here in honor of Valentine's Day.
Straight-up the arrows, hard-pressed the doors to all the rooms in all the houses on Clark Street. Father Coughlin brought blessings thinned with broth from potato peelings. Women poured tears into fringed shawls, and buried their dead above Dublin’s seashore, along the banks of the river Liffey. Through the years, the ghost of James Clark, Bugsy’s brother-in-law, pursued Al Capone all the way to his grave.
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