Photo by Peignault Laurent
This is the purse I bought
to take to New York
something small
with a long strap
something I could pull
over my shoulder
and wear like a sash.
As though I was going
to walk down Broadway,
arms open wide,
accepting flowers.
Something compact for
the essentials: lip balm, pen
and paper, an ID.
Though now that I think
about it, half
my identification
stayed behind, the final
embrace, after she turned
to go, stayed empty
and cold for a long time.
Even the next day
by myself at the museum,
the weight of her
absence pulled
at the zipper,
the bag caught
on corners and chairs.
Every time I untangled,
some representation
of mother and child was
in front of me.
Had I brought my big bag
I could have gathered them all.
