The Purse

I unpack the bag and pluck out my fears—

used tissues pinched by fingertips—

the truth of me smeared and hidden

lest anyone see I’m leaking.

Cringe and flinch at the caricature

my husband’s ex must make of me,

the time she caught me coveting her

well-lit composition and poise.

My finger tap, a signal
she was neither
out of sight nor out of mind.

My envy was lint in the side pocket

that, unballed, began as threads

from past betrayals and itchy scabs

I picked until they oozed.

In youth I feared deep loneliness,

the loss of power in a room of men,

a roving eye that paused for me but never

stopped.

Now the vows babies mortgages

bind me tight just as I wished.

In exchange, my solitude, a price I paid
with loose pennies from my purse.