The Pawn Shop - Ariel K. Moniz

The Pawn Shop

My mother walks into a pawn shop
cigarette ash on her knuckle
family heirloom on her wrist

I’ve got a fetus, she says
glassy eyed, back left molar rot

He turns it over, red pulsing thing
weighs it like low-grade cocaine

I can’t give you anything for this,
he hands it back across the glass
silent little thing that won’t shatter

She takes a deep breath, runs a hand
over her eleven white hairs
amid the forest of black, says

Why not? Like she’s chewing nicotine gum
but she isn’t, and the fetus on the counter
quivers

Because, like explaining physics to a child,
look at the way it’s brain is already
malformed, and here, can’t you see,
the heart is way too big—
it’s gonna cause problems,
all I’m saying is this,
get ready for a lot of crying
and these teeth are going to gnaw
right through you

She takes the reject from the table
argument biting her tongue nearly in half
asking the world to want the thing she doesn’t—

through the door sneaks afternoon light,
gold on her wrist
glitters

Originally published by The Kraken’s Spire 2020

Ariel K. Moniz (she/her) is a queer Black poetess, artist, and Hawaii local. She is an editor and a co-founder of The Hyacinth Review. You can find her through her website at kissoftheseventhstar.home.blog or staring out to sea.