Looking for a pen in my mother's purse
Annika Le

There’s a butterscotch candy

from the dry cleaner

on Barnes road,

It wears a layer

of frothy dust.

Buckled receipts

with the imprints of

my mother’s waxy lips

(blot, blot)

unfurl against

leather insides.

Forgotten toothpicks

and scrawled lists

pile up on a green

powder compact.

“I know it’s

in there,” she says.

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