The contents of her purse
revealed not the contents of her character,
but the things she liked to keep close.
They revealed that she loved
books about birds during a long wait;
that her preferred shade was “Pickled Pink”,
her scent, “Primrose Path”.
They revealed that she was, or had been,
for there was a chewed-up paccie,
a menagerie of animal crackers—
crushed like a pile of broken bones—
an elephant rattle, the eyes worn away.
They revealed that she was a student of something,
a voter, an organ donor, an unextreme couponer;
that she was prone to migraines,
had a penchant for dessert-flavored gum,
and was some 2000 miles from home.
No, her purse did not reveal who she was,
but her phone, found without her—
told the story of this gone girl.