I’ve sold my plasma for gift cards,

described my body across
telephone lines, inscribed my
desire across dinner napkins.

There was that one time I was paid to lie,
& then that other time I was paid to lie.

My father gave me a dollar
every time I lost
a tooth. My mother gave me a dollar
every time she wanted me to sit
quiet & alone.

I’ve shoplifted & resold &
shoplifted & resold & –

I never even needed the money.

I’m like the old woman on the street
with her palms tucked together,

telling you there’s a bird inside,
but when you take a peek,
it’s just your blue, bouncing heart.

I guess you could say I’ve made it
big time. My previous employer
was the bad breeze

that blew me here. In all my previous
lives, I’ve never been
so selfish. I write all the bills I pay.

Another shit day. Water where it’s not supposed to be.
An indifferent cashier – you have the receipt,

but can’t complete the return. Makes you late
to the movie. A theater full of teenagers

& they all bought popcorn. Sticky seat.
Phone-glow. It’s someone’s birthday – not yours,

& the big screen shines like a god above you,
advertises every time you’ve behaved

impatiently: a miserable child star plays you, nine
years old, setting up a board game at the hospital.

Off-screen: your father’s seizure.
Some kind things unremembered.

On-screen: you, picking the pink player piece,
giving him the green. Reading the rule book,

you’re stern & it’s unflattering in the Technicolor grading.
He just wants to win for once, right? Or he never cared

about the game. It was just you there, playing
for yourself, powerful enough to enforce

what you thought needed to be enforced: a series of
discrete steps determined by a jostling of dice

against the plastic dinner tray. The lights rise
like a bruise. You go home. Inside, people

& animals who love you. Early spring. White refrigerator,
lawn chairs. Dinner & sex. You don’t remember your dreams.