Her Purse at the Winter Solstice

Her Purse, at the Winter Solstice Poem By Susan Hahn

The needled red tea roses were distorted
by the quilt in the fabric of the cheap cotton
bag she carried through the filth
of snow to the transfusions
and back again to her bed
where she fanned herself
into the soft pink blankets and then closed
into them like a small item,

lost. Sometimes I couldn’t find her—
a swansdown powder puff,
misplaced. All night
I’d dream of black taffeta, locked inside
a day bag of white painted metal plaques
or an evening clutch of lacquered brass,

covered with ash, ribbed silk. Her purse
had too deep a background,
where blossoms were pinned down
—stitch to stitch—

with never a hope they could climb off
and into the coming spring air, join
the others. I’d dream of a framed
French carryall, pale blue silk
and silver thread worked into
a pattern of a spiderweb, finished
with a tassel of carved steel
beads, my fingers constantly being cut,
by handles decorated with flowered urns
and the cold heads of the sphinxes.

Happy Wednesday Wishes

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *