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.

The air’s caress
is nothing personal.

Less than ourselves
all our lives

waiting for
the other shoe
to step on your face