Cassandra Caverhill·PoetryBlood MoneyShareIn my dream my parents consulted lists of some undisclosed inheritance: vials of blood money rested on a silver platter, drawnfrom some unknown location, to be passed down through the limbs of our family tree. Infusions of cash to swellpockets—when high tide comes all ships rise—but my sisters declined the offering and held up their hands like a row of stop signs. I felt resigned to their common refrain, an echo which sprangfrom a place of duty rather than desire. If money stands for energy, as Jung believed, does a crisis loom on my horizon, where silhouetted oil pumps pluckpetrol from the earth? I imagine my sisters holding hands with hydro towers, sunbathing on solar panels—flirting with their own power, chargedwith a current that jolts. Reaching out to grasp live wire with my fingers, I brace my bones as the handout flows right through me.