POVERTY

by Michael H. Brownstein

I have run away from money
every penny jumping from me
through open windows like a scream.
Some things are that intense:
A hole in my back grows larger,
blistered pink, its edges raw with redness
I cannot purchase at a store.
When all of your blood leaks from your wrist
—and it only takes six minutes in warm water—
all of the blood money, greed money,
easy living money, slippery and greasy money,
slides away, a gasp of air above the water,
everything filling with something else.