I stole quarters from my mother
the way we end up stealing all things
from our mothers. I shuffled them
in my pocket, thumbing George
Washington’s swollen face. I sweat
onto the clad ridges—my pillowy fists
listless against too- stiff denim. I liked
the weight of them: $3 cylindered
into the valley of my cupped fingers. I walked
half a mile to the carnival, kicking gravel
into the backs of my sneakers. The wall neon-ed
at me in block letters: “TATTOOED
LADY!”. The bikini cartoon leered: both
her eyes & the eyes of the python emblazoned
on her. I gave my money to the aftershave
man. He laughed, pressed
three quarters back into my palm, pointed
to the numbers underneath her designed bottom. [ONLY
$2.25!] I crept into the room, which was hot
& smelled like cows & she wasin the corner
in a chair. She was so old
I couldn’t make out the snake— her tattoos bled
into one another like rain -ruined chalk
drawings: mermaids & skulls huddled together,
abraded. She was still in the same bikini
as her picture. She smiled. Her technicolor
skin sagged toward the ground: the earth
trying to pull her back into it.
Photo By: Jlhopgood
