my father answers my unanswerable cries with a hummed ‘money is coming’
i swallow his words without chewing, one gulp.
often he does not have to move his lips for me to hear him, he hums
he is a healer who brings his work home with him,
distributes the sound to us as prescription.
his copper tongue is turning green now, years of wear, distribution, transaction.
my mother prays for enough money to live without struggle
she asks him not to be put to shame
and when i tell her to reach for the first step, to attempt to taste glory wrought by her own hands, she holds me with suspicion. the second coming is not to be questioned.