subtraction
sometimes I get angry all over again even now waking up in the middle of the night with the thought *thousands of dollars* like a heart gasp the thought that the pattern happened more than once the shame in generosity the way holding someone else's hand meant I could never get ahead the way the man who read my palm, voluntarily, at the corner store knew and warmed me, even and still my heart is a calculator who will wake me up at night to tell me something isn't right years, even a decade, after the subtraction