bandit.

You fill our home with change.
Dimes on the kitchen counter,
pennies in the cat’s water bowl,
nickels between the sheets,
quarters stuck to the diamond shaped pit behind my knee.
Silver glimmered imprints
on my collar bone.
Pocket change everywhere you kiss.

I can’t vacuum for fear
of copper crushing gears.
I sweep your carelessness into a dustpan,
bristles collecting bus fare
busting from the cracks in the floor.

Our seven-hour first date, every dive bar closed
on our conversation.
We walked into pearl morning, exchanging
miles for more time.
Each step, a metal orchestra.
Even then I felt the undertow of your body,
heavy rusted hurt
pulling you
down.

Three years paid, I have traced every sharp edge
of your story.
Nestled mouth to meter ear, we share
the legal tender of secrets.
Yours, too-young battles
waged at home.
Mine, collateral scars from a man
I tried to call home.

We don’t owe ghosts.
Abundance is our future, not past.
Now we are safe
to let guards down, you are free
to fill our bathtub with laundry day allowance.
Your loose change, the salt I soak in.
Every debt others took out
on our bodies,
inherited by the drain.

Bandit Fiction is an entirely not-for-profit organisation run by passionate volunteers. We do our best to keep costs low, but we rely on the support of our readers and followers to be able to do what we do. The best way to support us is by purchasing one of our back issues. All issues are ‘pay what you want’, and all money goes directly towards paying operational costs.