Erin Cisney

by Patrick Younger

he shifts his big bifocal glasses up the bridge

of his nose and smirks a little. no, no, he says,

this is how paradise is made: we compromise.

you give a little & i take it. then you give a little,

then i take it. i give you what i think you need,

that is, i tell you what you need & you need it.

as he says this he cleaves a little clementine:

you can’t just print money til everybody has

enough. so i ask him why not. he says, my son,

& puts his hand on my shoulder so jesusly, oh

my son. i tell him some days i believe in nothing

but my eventual self-immolation, that it’ll hurt,

that it’ll happen, that it’ll be on the national

mall, that it’ll be on the national news, that

the patch of grass i leave razed in my wake

will stay black & dormant til he comes back

in what do they call it in the bible? a blaze

of glory. he glances at my car. a bumper

sticker reads: i’d rather be eating locusts

in the wilderness. another says repent.

he says the bible never says blaze of

glory, but matthew says flash of light-

ning. destruction is destruction, i say &

he takes his hand off my shoulder. he wants

to talk more about modern monetary theory.

i tell him my theory on money: i tell him he’s

supposed to hate it. it’s right there in the book.

& he laughs at me. you can find whatever