J e n n y R o s s i You deserve the office You are working at the bank, Where from a new office you rise occasionally to take my papers and check, weigh my account and face adding the minutes, months, and now years, subtracting yourself without adding interest. Telling me the going conversion rate for what’s between my legs. Your stiff forearms and lips greeting me with professional rictus and the transparent window separating that world from mine cannot protect you forever. I ask why you take transactions, which are of small value, the papers I send across, representing what I have. would you say that bank notes are like old love notes? People withdrawing and overdrawing on each other, the dangerous little fees that eat us up, grind with small teeth, are no safer than paper numbers. The beating redness of chests, demand to be locked up the emptiness robbing it of interest or credit, where recounting is done in secret by petty hands. You deserve the office, the cold space, the white walls, the tie. Jenny Rossi writes from Vermont, where words freeze before they hit the ground. She is honored to appear in cur.ren.cy, has a chapbook on Deadly Chaps Press and poetry on Strange Horizons.
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Jenny Rossi |