Poetry

A Handbag

In the lining of my handbag

I discovered an opening

In the corner of a pocket,

Only an index finger’s poking width.

I ripped the seam,

pulled the mouth wide

And looked inside.

I saw a black hole.

An elephant graveyard

Of dusty chewing gum, lost keys,

And crumpled tram tickets;

Many pens and hair bobbles

And... a jar of marmite?

Yes, brown glass and yellow lid,

Missing from my shelf in the kitchen;

A CD that a friend swore he’d given back to me;

The blinds the landlord promised months ago.

I delved deeper,

My arm in up to my elbow,

And found the pinafore I wore on the first day of school;

The scratchy fabric from the old settee;

Gran’s lightest Victoria Sponge.

Then my hand touched something cold and wet;

Something almost out of reach.

I brought it to the surface

And saw a misshapen wax face,

Her sad mouth melting,

Slipping through the gaps between my fingers.

Like a doll with one blinking eye,

She winked at me,

A Picasso.

I pushed everything back down through the hole,

Scared that I might be sucked in too.

Picturing the face squashed under a pile

Of pens, pinafores and marmite,

 I stood up, shrugged the handbag onto my shoulder

And walked home.

My hands still sticky and cold with wax.

Amy Poulton