Peniaphobia

Sounds like fear of pennies.

From Greek: penia, poverty. Anxiety, dread,

shortness of breath, irregular heart.

In 1853, in Barnstable, women were found

in a warm season, there’s grass. But how cold

is a stall in winter? How cold are chains?

Seven buildings. Wooden structures,

small sheds. Behind a bent back board, no insulation.

The women found sixteen years after my relative

died in the almshouse in the town next door.

Everyone crowded together: dependent, sick,

mentally ill to the lowest bidder.

I didn’t open the envelopes.

The women in cages 160 years ago in a little

wooden box. Are animals chained?

Those who enter called inmates.

When I gave up on love, moved away,

I sat frozen on the couch.

Borrowed $500 to fix my car run into the ground.

When I didn’t repay fast enough, it was all over.

I found out in the grocery: food in a paper bag,

card declined. Account frozen. Ball gowns hung

from trees, on the hoods of cars. Why do we have to pay

for these? I’d left for another state, for happiness.

A lien and a tape recorder. You’re a poet,

you must own a computer. I’m still afraid

of the decline. I told my brother, It’s okay.

I’m fine. He drove to the ATM, knocked on my door,

cash in hand. Crying. It’s what family does.

Love paid them off, judgment lifted.

Hyperbole an expensive item in the poorhouse

low on cash. The young lawyer said

they wanted everything.