Wednesday
Apr082015

Broke 

Jen DeGregorio


 

I approach the ATM these days
the way I did the Sunday altar—
in need, ashamed 

of what I'd done, or wanted
inside the stores on Bedford Avenue.
Dress, it’s true, I lusted after you

to cover what I've worn
since birth. Only today
you're outdated. Time to box you

with the rest in the basement—
string of gray pearls, gold
ring that in a month rubbed down

to tin, heels that made me
bleed, yet tall and lean as if
I'd fasted. For you, I've spent

whole days indoors, entered
curtained room after

curtained room, sure I'd find
my size among the fabrics—
Perfect gown, my slip of white.