BECAUSE THEY SAY WHAT YOU OWN DEFINES YOU
O lip gloss, cherry
(as teenage crush convertibles parked
on the flat gray riverbed
of suburban driveways); three pens;
and solitary notebook, blue — you
are the contents of the cave
I carry with me. Ginger
candies spice the breath; mascara
that paints my lashes
into small black fences swinging open, shut; tiny mirror
(reflective porthole where I regard no ocean other
than my entirely unblue eyes); book
I'm reading; wallet; cellphone; keys:
you are what I think I need. Black
strap across my shoulder,
at my back — when I unsnap
reaching in?
— Kate Angus