March 2012

The Inheritance

A new poem

by Dolan Morgan
Stop counting other people’s money.
You’re pulling from the discards.
We had to liquidate your holdings to
ensure your future comfort. It’s
someone else’s child. It changed. We
are ideal candidates. We’re not
related by blood and you love me.
Astronauts love golf. You know, I’ve
been dreaming about a suitcase.
Everything’s perfect. We’re supposed
to keep it dim, I don’t know why. Ice
blue, white top. Don’t pretend like it’s
not scary. We’ve tried. I’m not allowed
to talk about it. It’s a convention. This
was all supposed to be ours. The smell.
Time to put something else in that mouth.
People do that. Do I have to go around
and write my name on all the things
I want? We were halfway to the hospital
before I noticed I was in my nightie.
The doctors say it’s not serious.

—lines from Mad Men, season two, episode ten

Dolan Morgan lives and writes in Greenpoint, Brooklyn.

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