Little Coin. Poem by Mary X

This coin spins with a magnetic current
Under it’s wing.
I spin it with anticipation: see which side surfaces.

Tails,
Go back to bed to sip the dreams
That might pass through my state of REM.

Heads,
Go back to the lion’s cave
To be slowly devoured; flesh and thread.

Little coin,
The thumb twiddles your sides
With a sigh of pressure

Pressing on the side of my head.
Flesh and thread to
Sew hoops into my side,

String me up into a lamp-post
And truly dent my escapism.
Little coin, little coin

You’re so shiny with your
New outlook on life: pay
For my soul little coin, little coin.

If you land on heads,
Please take my wish and
Solidify it, little coin

Little coin. A small hut
On top of an Indian hill-side,
With a hand-crafted table and

A tobacco tin resting on top,
A small hammock to rest on
And a window looking out to a sea of trees.

A twiddle of the coin
Brings a cup of magma
And a flicker of dreams:

Over the hill of tails are
Oceans with boats resting on the
Shore,

Boats to sail. Tails
To play and not any more
Chance.

To my surprise –
The coin stops it’s splutter,
Little coin, little coin,

You landed on neither heads nor tails.


Mary X.