I take all the afghanis in my pocket and ask them what my country smells like

Piled up, this is the longest all my afghanis have ever been in one place

I look at my afghanis and feel guilty for not having saved more

When the night comes, the neighbor watches as we count the number of afghanis in my family

and when we come up a few short she reminds us that we ought to be more careful

In a fit of rage my mother knocks all of our pictures off the mantle and screams

the only time you will find an afghani laying on the floor

is if it has fallen out of the pocket of a politician

How many afghanis make a US dollar?

Local afghanis gather at my community mosque for a funeral

and when the imam starts the call to prayer

They crumple as if made of paper

Afghanis of all colors can be seen strewn across the floor, but no one bends down to collect them

Everyone knows the most value an afghani has

is in the hands of an American soldier

My afghanis buy time in a refugee camp

The ones who cannot afford the price are used as kindling

In my father’s briefcase, there are afghanis preserved from every time period

He says these afghanis are for when he goes back

I avoid telling him they are out of circulation

At the market, I wipe the dust off my afghanis and attempt to buy freedom

There are not enough afghanis in my possession to afford peace

My afghanis are quietly pressed into palms and secretly traded

When ready for purchase, I place my afghanis face side up

My afghanis are ready to pay the cost of living

They lay lifeless on the table awaiting change