The Addict’s Daughter Considers Drowning

It has & always will be
        a hundred-dollar bill      Yes,
             this is the instrument of cultured grief:
     faded paper       snot-reeked and spun
into the shape of a pen cap –
        now observe the undercurrent,
            that violent grip of warmth barreling
      their bodies into silence & also
those beached whales sputtering up
       around me      pleading
        for one more wave & I know
     what you’re thinking;
what is glamorous about
        a room pregnant
          with people sinking
     into the floorboards, thinking themselves
as joyful as a school of parrotfish?
     I can tell you this:
         when the tide breaks, the body
     glistens & begs      to be beaten again
with salt. The salt tastes      richer
     the second time around. I can tell you
         when I found myself midocean
     with a wad of a washed-out hundred
crushed between my thumbs I could not weep.
     There was so much music in that dark.
         I heard my mother sing & for the first time
     since her absence, I laughed. It was,
of course, at nothing. The room full of
       drug-thirst dripping at the seams.
        It was, of course,    not my money.
       I was penniless and craving something
still     I cannot tell you I will ever find.

Megan LeAnne is a multi-genre writer and teaching artist specializing in performance poetry and movement arts. She earned her B.A. in English Writing and currently resides in Nashville, TN where she serves as a poet mentor for Southern Word. Megan's work has appeared or is forthcoming in Flumes Magazine, The Write Launch, Native Magazine, Pithead Chapel, Talking Writing, Meat for Tea: The Valley Review and many more. Find her online @ML__Poeta on twitter and