I am writing as if something sad

that hasn’t happened yet, & might not happen

at all, has already happened because I want

to memorialize this potential-for-sadness

& if I wait, Life will either rob me of this

by delivering some kind of joy

I don’t know how it happened,

these comfortable shoes,

lipstick snugs in the tube,

sleeping inside a small cross-body

purse without Dolce, no

Gabbana or Prada.

Make-up happens

sometimes, blushing or lining.

Irises accessorize,

turning green, sometimes

brown or amber, never

quite the right color.

There is this box of water I keep

in my chest next to a picture of us

walking through the woods because

I am thrilled by the resident tension

of this image of torrential wetness

held close to an artifact that could not

withstand the resulting deluge, that

when submerged would become distorted

or lost forever, thrilled too because

at least this way it seems like I am in control.