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Bankrupt

Lili Fishman


I drop kisses on your lips

like dimes in a collection tin.

Slip coins between your teeth

five cents per lip,

the cheapest kissing booth.

The silver scrapes your gums

as it slides to rest

underneath your tongue.

Nickels make homes on the roof of your mouth

when I kiss you goodbye in the morning.

Pennies line your molars,

copper shavings swallowed every time

you bite down.


You choke

on my next deposit. Fine,

let’s crack them open. And so,

I pry apart your jaws.

Mouth heavy with metal

the first alloy rolls out of the silver sluice

inviting its allies to join, a mass

clinking and glinting on the floor,

my kisses reduced to loose change.

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