To My Purse

Hand held cavern, gunny sack
of narratives: might I shrink

and zip myself
into your little village,

savoring relief akin
to that of crumbled aspirin

who whiten your lining, freed
from scrutiny or use? I’d live

in solidarity with all your citizens:
blunted lipsticks, dented mint tins,

a wadded corsage of nose-blown
tissue, and tampons who’ve burst

their cellophane girdles.Your satiny
chasm’s no cloister or womb. Nights,

I feign sleep as you hang
from the doorknob, marsupial

pouch or wasp’s nest, abuzz
with faint sounds of revelry.