On Learning the Galaxy Take Both Cash and Credit
Kelli Russell Agodon
I admit when I’ve had a little too much
to drink I love our inadequacies.
The pockets of the universe do not hold us—
like coins we slip through its unraveling seams.
Don’t pretend the universe isn’t unstitching itself
from our anxieties, it’s tired of the party dresses
we made from waxwings, how we suck up the sea
just because we want a little salt on our lips.
It’s true last week I learned I had money
in Idaho, though I’ve never been to Idaho,
there are states we avoid—manic, delusion,
confusion—I’ve got portfolios in all the capitols,
I’ve bought Boardwalk with two donuts
and broken whistle.
I’m standing on the corner with my top hat
and a sign: Will write poems for cashmere.
My hands in the universe’s pockets
trying to collect its last dime.
Originally published in Moss: Volume Four.