Demree McGhee

A Girl Without Money Is Nothing

my mom, the waitress, conjured tips
by painting her nails green, bleaching
her teeth. She said families held
her name in their mouths

in the revolving door, men
would grasp her wrist, as if
they were drowning, whisper,
I like you.

with their pricks, boys know
they can stick it in, drive
hollow out and I guess
a girl just echoes

like a Coinstar—
a ringing post for
lack. when we came home,
my mom and I capsized coins

from our pockets right onto the floor,
paving the carpet silver and bronze, cold like water
beneath our step.
at my friends’ houses—white girls—there

was never any money in sight,
they kept it in plastic, housed
in plaster and brick, while I clinked,
wishing fountain girl

overflowing with want, but they desired too
to skim the surface of what opened to us,
the skin we heard our own voices in.
I wished for a coin purse

to fold me in, fasten and latch,
and muffle the ringing.

Demree McGhee is a writer from San Diego, CA. She holds a BA in Literature and Writing from UCSD. Her poetry and prose has been featured in Lunch Ticket, Wax Nine Journal, SORTES, The Spectacle, and more. You can read more of her work at demreemcghee.com.