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I pull pennies from a surgeon’s glove —
the brass-leafed coin slightly powdered
like the bottom of banana bread fresh from the pan.
They’re hard to count; the copper numbers as
disconnected as random platitudes from my childhood.
“A thing worth doing is worth doing well.”
-
I dreamt last night of you counting
out loud in a child’s nursery, a sing song voice
of a chorus echoing up from the monitor:
“One potato. Two potato. Three potato. Four.”
-
I repeat Coleridge to myself — not his poems
but his existence, his daily sustenance.
“As a boy you ate potatoes cooked in cabbage water.
As a child you ate cabbage cooked in cabbage water.”
It keeps me adrift, repeating food as security.
-
You died in the most amusing way.
Five potato. Six potato. Seven potato.
More.
-
You pull nickels from a surgeon’s glove —
the silver coil slightly warm
like rye bread fresh from the oven.
The steel numbers are hard to count, as
disconnected as random platitudes from your childhood.
“A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.”
-
Yesterday, you dreamt of your father counting
out loud in the soft night, a deep voice chorus
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echoing out from the cotton sheets:
One potato. Two potato. Three potato. Four.
-
You repeat Byron to yourself — not his poems
but his existence, his daily sustenance.
“As a boy he had certain sexual urges.
As a man he acted on those urges.”
It keeps you adrift, repeating lust as security.
-
He died in the most amusing way.
Five potato. Six potato. seven potato.
More.
-
He pulled drachma from a surgeon’s glove —
the antique silver coin thin, like unleavened bread.
Hard to count, the Greek numbers
become disconnected, random platitudes from his childhood.
“A penny saved is a penny earned.”
-
On his last night he dreamt of his ancestors counting
out loud in their afterlives, ageless voices in chorus
echoing up through the familial folds of history.
One potato. Two potato. Three potato. Four.
-
He repeated Augusta to himself — not his poems,
but his existence, his daily sustenance.
“As a boy I wanted acceptance.
As a girl she needed love.”
It kept him adrift, repeating incest as security.
-
He died in the most amusing way.
Five potato. Six potato. Seven potato.
And no more.
