Bankrupt

Lili Fishman

Bankrupt

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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