I never had a chance
to be frivolous. My mother’s
greatest fear was that we would die
from some small neglect: a seatbelt
not worn, a swollen can of beans
unnoticed and eaten, the want
of a stair nail. My father’s
was that the ripped blue jeans, stale
crackers, scrap paper we failed
to save would be exactly what we
needed to survive. I dream my teeth
are falling out. And sometimes,
they do, shell fragments
still wet in my palm. Death takes
a thousand forms, and so does
poverty: some arms are viper
nests, some embraces,
scissors through purse straps.
I have never regretted
the knots I didn’t tie
around my wrists, but
these kisses
burn in my pocket; I fear everyone
on the street can see
my tiny unspent fire.
Bethany F. Brengan is a freelance writer and editor who splits her time between the Olympic Peninsula and the internet. Her poetry has appeared in Revolute, Channel, The Gordon Square Review, and CV2: The Canadian Journal of Poetry and Critical Writing. She can be found at medium.com/@bethanybrengan.
