When I reach deep into the bag
I carry every day, the one my mother

would have called a purse
and my grandmother a “pockabook,”

my fingers touch the round, flat, cold
of dimes and pennies and nickels, with

the occasional quarter, fallen from my wallet.
And, as if I didn’t know where that money

came from, my little self—who always wonders
if she will have enough—giggles,

delighted to find myself richer than expected,
as if I truly know where any of this comes from,

as if I’ve never felt that kind of support,
as if I didn’t know that you and I, my dear—

in fact, all beings everywhere—
have always been, always shall be, held.