In my dream
my parents consulted
lists of some undisclosed
inheritance: vials
of blood money rested
on a silver platter, drawn
from some unknown
location, to be passed
down through the limbs
of our family tree.
Infusions of cash to swell
pockets—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 sprang
from 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 pluck
petrol from the earth? I imagine
my sisters holding hands
with hydro towers, sunbathing
on solar panels—flirting
with their own power, charged
with a current that jolts.
Reaching out to grasp
live wire with my fingers, I
brace my bones
as the handout flows
right through me.
