Penny Sorting
Ashleigh tells me
that they have officially
started phasing out
the Canadian penny.
I try to focus
on the terrible poems
being read
in this dark café, but
between
the TV throbbing and my
thoughts
of the poor pennies, I can
do nothing
but stare at my hands.
Ashleigh sees my face
pouring
into my fingernails
and tells me it’s ok. This
overly lipsticked Korean
girl’s
poems are basically the
same
as watching an episode of
“Girls”.
I remember sorting
the Canadian coins from
the American
in my father’s large,
square dish of change.
I don’t quite know why I
did this –
perhaps I was collecting
quarters
for the ice cream
truck? Perhaps
I was just a strange
children
who liked holding small
things.
The Canadian pennies,
in my memory of them,
have beautiful copper
beavers
on both sides – though I
know
they have maple leaves and
that it is, in fact, the
Canadian nickel
that depicts a
beaver. My hands,
after a good coin sorting,
were disgusting – caked
in something that couldn’t
be seen,
but I could feel it – a
softness that was
unpleasant and old. The edges
of my fingernails would be
dirty
and I never knew why but
that ugliness
would force my fingernails
into my mouth.
I try to focus on the lilt
of this tiny woman’s
voice, but
I find I have been picking
at my fingernails.
There is no place for them
to go but up.
