Strange Money

God swells when the people put themselves in him
A marriage shower forms to catch the semblance
Of a consciousness left by homesexual desire
On its way to take for granted what it is supposed to explain

When the worker sinks into love
Of autonomy in perverted
Drive for shared power
Well past midnight we haul boxes

Into assembled hands
The situation noticeably changes
Individuals released into free fall
Seeking others like themselves
Foraging parking lots

Script for a movie

We wake at 4am to an early sunrise
flooding the room with pink light. I can
never sleep this time of year. The yard has
sunk underneath the ocean. My neighbors’
houses are long gone. Boaters row
furiously against the wind. Everything
outside does not explain itself to us.
I shout that we should leave, but we are
stuck in bed. Years pass. Your hair turns
curly. I take a comb and straighten it.

Phoebe Glick is a poet, PhD student and labor organizer in Western Massachusetts.