Jeff Burt

She wanted a used handbag made of straw,
a large handbag made of worn straw
brown where the wear created bruises of use
or age spots of wisdom from long ago travel
or birthmarks of straw’s breaking ground
in the farmer’s field of its childhood.

She did not want the history that grimes
the inside of the bag, the barrette or clip
keeping someone else’s hair in place
while her life teetered out of control
or the lip gloss for another date
that meant she hadn’t held on to the last one
or the wadded Kleenex with saline
of tears sewn into the tissue by time.

She wanted a handbag to open
like a tide pool washed by incoming waves
filling with the small coins of her life
with two handles not quite even
to represent the slight imbalance
between the right and left sides of her hips
and her tendency towards hysteria
in both laughter and remorse.

She wanted a handbag made of straw
knitted and strong to pull her
into a future woven and resilient,
a flower on the side a reminder
of her pluck and the luck that she needed.
She wanted a handbag made of straw
because it matched her straw shoes.