In the Dream of Money by Henry Israeli there is no window that has not been filled with cold hard bills stacked up like bricks to block out the sun. In the dream of money a woman gives birth to a baby that cries and cries until filled with spoonful after spoonful of coins. In the dream of money someone says, capitalism is in our blood, and, indeed the ground below us is stained with money. In the dream of money money falls from clouds but burns to ash before hands lifted skyward in prayer can reach them. In the dream of money all prayers start and end with money, and the newly converted fall to the floor and writhe until they’re covered in a blanket of stitched together bills. In the dream of money we’re told that everyone’s a winner before our shirts are stuffed with cash, our pants stuffed with money, all of us hoisted up like scarecrows in a field of scarecrows, all of us lifted onto our own posts, coming apart in the wind.
★ First published in ONLY POEMS ★