The year I turn 18, I meet the man who will love me
and stop loving me. This is also the summer I turn bronze.
Each morning, I drop a coin into a bowl near the bed.
Let it not be today. 

If he stirs, I press my fingers over his mouth
until he falls back asleep.
One morning I begin swallowing the coins,
a penny at a time. When I try to speak, my tongue clangs

against my teeth. My hair unspools in copper coils.
Of course, this becomes too much for him.
Late September he leaves, knocking books off their shelves
with his umbrella in his rush to the door.

I race to the bathroom mirror. I’m still breathing.
When I turn on the faucet my late mother’s voice gushes out,
Now you can buy anything you want. 
I adjust the folds of my robe.  I am ready now.

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Image Credit:Jenn Zed
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Trish has poems published or forthcoming in Right Hand Pointing, Blast Furnace Press, Off the Coast, Eunoia, Fat Damsel, the late Seattle Poetry Review and others. She divides her time between Seattle and Hawaii. Right Hand Pointing will publish a chapbook of her short poems in December 2017.

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