Coins

If I stacked the coins
one upon another,
they’d rise higher than my hands could hold

a tower of cold and metallic stack.
Each one a small, obedient weight,
They say order keeps things clean
but I’ve seen what order does:
it presses the breath flat,
files the pulse down to a whisper.
When I'm told to count them
I wonder -
why must they stand in order?
Why must value behave,
march in lines,
pretend it isn’t heavy?

I imagine flinging them
metal screaming as it breaks the air,
I’d rather scatter them.
Let them sink into loam and water,
sinking into places that forget names.
Let rust kiss their edges.
Let time unmake their shine

But the cruel truth is this:
they are not in the ground,
not in the lake,
not lost to the dark.

Buried in me
Counting me even when I sleep
Let the numbers rot
Whatever they were meant to buy
which I won't do anymore