The Purse
The Purse
I remember reminding myself to remember
To ask for your purse. Morbid, young as you were.
Or maybe you told me I could have it,
Recognizing how much I loved it.
I can still see you peering down
Into its perfumed vastnesses, and yet
I don’t remember what it looked like.
I couldn’t pick it out of a lineup of purses.
I only remember what it contained.
Whitmanian, it contained multitudes.
There was always gum. I know this because
There wasn’t a single time I asked and wasn’t
Given some. Compacts with round mirrors
Glued into their lids. Brushes matted
With hair. Tubes of lipstick, the crayon that
Silently swiveled up shaped by your lips.
The same lipstick you left on our cheeks,
Laughing as we wiped your kisses away.
Whatever novel you were reading.
Sunglasses. Sunscreen. The money
You pressed upon us and which,
When we refused it, you almost angrily
Insisted we take. The only time I saw you
Mad was when I tried to deny your love,
Which, being mine, I had no right to
Say no to. The twenties were so crisp,
As if they’d been deposited into your purse
Directly by the treasury. Oh and tissues
For when you cried. You cried a lot.
In joy when we arrived, in sadness when
We left. For once you’re the one who’s left,
Which must mean that you aren't crying.
You were going to leave me your purse.
I don’t know where it is, so I’ve put it here,
On this page, so I can carry it with me
The way you carried it: everywhere.
Heart external to your chest, in which
You kept everything that makes life lovely.