and yes it does beg
the question why
a nine-year-old needs
two twenty-dollar bills still
sticky and crumbled, just
the way they were
when taken from
my mother’s purse

suddenly, suffocated
snug in the navy
Velcro wallet my mother
bought me because
I begged and she said
the blue reminds me of you

the two bills safely
hidden except maybe
to show Eddie Tamsin
who somehow had sixty
dollars in his wallet—
more money than I had
ever seen in a palm—

no, the two bills
were to stay
here crushed against
each other promising
something—
a safety I could not
put words to then, perhaps
still am chasing now

the two bills would whisper
only my name
the things I thought
they might be worth
two and a half CDs
a week’s worth of food
a warm bed
in a different city
perhaps even a new
sink for my mother
which was now a dull red

the crimson drip of corn
syrup from the drink
she had been holding
for me in her purse, now
staining my hands, my nails
under the blabbering faucet
the liquid ruby settling
itself like a dim blanket
onto the white basin
that I would soon replace
for her with a better one
with handles that didn’t
squeak

____

and my mother
the next
morning

with her hands
clean, outstretched, calling
me into her room—saying
it evenly
I need it back

neither of us
needing
clarification

how she didn’t look at me
when I put it in her hand
how after, she still left
the purse at the bottom
of the stairs

open
where it had always been

poetry-magazineFrom the magazine:Two Bills

From the magazine:Two Bills