Once a year, I take
them from the bowl,
and rinse them
clean, using
the corner of a cotton napkin
to dry
the Hungarian forint—
its elegant 2 like a monolith—
the Danish kroner with the hole
in the middle,
the Czech 50 haler,
light as a tiddlywink.
Surprisingly cool—
as though extracted from a vault
deep in the earth—
each has a peculiar weight
unlike any American coin,
and each has a smell:
hushed, sour,
reminiscent of holy water
and candlesticks,
the smell of metal
that has been dug, melted,
cooled, and stamped,
metal that has been held lovingly
in a small, sweaty hand,
or nonchalantly, in a large, impatient palm,
doled out
onto wood, plastic, paper, and rubber,
but most often, into another
hand,
cradled
from pocket to pocket,
wallet to box,
coming to rest
against iron and brass,
copper and nickel,
slivers of the sturdy seams
that hold our world
intact.
Most have a patina
that won’t remove,
a creeping smirch
that comes
from a sudden loss
of usefulness,
of being no value
now, except
for the mystery I invest
them with.
Under the lavish light
of my appraisal,
they give back what gleam
they can, somber and alien,
marked with such symbols
as nations respect: lions
and laurels, kings and queens,
kangaroos, ostriches, coats-of-arms.
Originally published in Cider Press Review, Volume 1.
