Carol McMahon: “Profit Margin”

A bloody-pulp socket in my mouth was
worth something. Fifty cents, at least.
So I sat at the kitchen table to twist
and tug and twist—use a tissue for better
purchase while the salt-iron taste proved
my progress. Nobody wanted to watch 
but I wasn’t sure what the big deal was. 
It wasn’t like having to look at Nancy’s blood- 
streaked sputum or the slack space beneath
Minnie’s blouse or even Uncle Frank’s
humped-up hand and gnarled fingers.
It was just good business and I aimed
to profit from my loss.