Cashout
by Em Judkins
after Jericho Brown
A poem can’t afford instant withdrawal,
but it can lure you to the games out back.
The allure of games like these is out back
each bell and whistle whispers: I can save you.
I can’t save you, but I can whisper
I found another way to live than this.
One way to live is to take the money
and run yourself over with a car smoking hellfire.
Sometimes, my hands streak hellfire down my body
and I forget I ever lived here. Heavenly bodies
often forget they’re heavenly after use.
Sometimes the silence of a body still scares
me. The silence of her body was my first
withdrawal. This is what a poem can afford.
A poem can’t afford instant withdrawal,
but it can lure you to the games out back.
The allure of games like these is out back
each bell and whistle whispers: I can save you.
I can’t save you, but I can whisper
I found another way to live than this.
One way to live is to take the money
and run yourself over with a car smoking hellfire.
Sometimes, my hands streak hellfire down my body
and I forget I ever lived here. Heavenly bodies
often forget they’re heavenly after use.
Sometimes the silence of a body still scares
me. The silence of her body was my first
withdrawal. This is what a poem can afford.
Em Judkins (they/he) is a queer poet and filmmaker with a B.A. in English and Film and Media Studies from Smith College. Their work has received the Ethel Olin Corbin Prize, the Ruth Forbes Eliot Prize, and the Elizabeth Drew Essay Prize, and appears in The Core Review, new words poetry journal, Emulate, and elsewhere. You can find them at emjudkins.com and @ee.jay_ on Instagram.