"Settling In" by Leslie Lindsay
Cherry Cheesman | Things I Forget to Keep in My Purse
Keys, portable charger, smaller purse.
Tarot cards that someone, in another world is reading
to me. Hair ties, hair dye, a wig for the day my hair splits
from my scalp in protest. A pair of dangling
metallic charms, which I believe would peal
softly, hum over all the space
in my empty purse. My baptism
dress, and all the pearls that flew themselves
from the loose hemwork. A tender ear
of sweet corn from the fields
I watched through the humid car window. Little glass
container of butter, smaller container
of margarine, for my vegan friend
who only finds me
at the least convenient of times.
I suppose that the next time
I see them, I will apologize, leave a space
blank between us while we eat our bread dry.
In particular, I think about the scuffed pair of Blundstones
a girl used to lay in my lap while we shared
our worst stories of caffeine dependency:
twelve shots of espresso at fifteen. Cardboard
twelve-packs flattened, filling
recycling cans like organs. And I forgot,
forgot that I forgot my grandfather’s
liver, which I imagine
contains the ability to purify me instantly. Cleanse
the details I talk about too much – my
nights full of no memory but very much color:
gelatin-red skyscraper lights bending over
an almost-city and into a stained windowsill.
How easily thrill guts everything.
How easily joy will remove your ceiling
and disappear when you look towards the sky.
Tarot cards that someone, in another world is reading
to me. Hair ties, hair dye, a wig for the day my hair splits
from my scalp in protest. A pair of dangling
metallic charms, which I believe would peal
softly, hum over all the space
in my empty purse. My baptism
dress, and all the pearls that flew themselves
from the loose hemwork. A tender ear
of sweet corn from the fields
I watched through the humid car window. Little glass
container of butter, smaller container
of margarine, for my vegan friend
who only finds me
at the least convenient of times.
I suppose that the next time
I see them, I will apologize, leave a space
blank between us while we eat our bread dry.
In particular, I think about the scuffed pair of Blundstones
a girl used to lay in my lap while we shared
our worst stories of caffeine dependency:
twelve shots of espresso at fifteen. Cardboard
twelve-packs flattened, filling
recycling cans like organs. And I forgot,
forgot that I forgot my grandfather’s
liver, which I imagine
contains the ability to purify me instantly. Cleanse
the details I talk about too much – my
nights full of no memory but very much color:
gelatin-red skyscraper lights bending over
an almost-city and into a stained windowsill.
How easily thrill guts everything.
How easily joy will remove your ceiling
and disappear when you look towards the sky.
Cherry Cheesman is a writer from the Carolinas. Her work has been featured in Bending Genres, Beaver Magazine, and Right Hand Pointing. She is a current editor at Love & Squalor. She loves fancy shrimp and grits.
Leslie Lindsay’s work has been published in various literary and art journals, including: Up the Staircase Quarterly (cover art), Another Chicago Magazine (ACM), Wild Roof Journal, Spring-Summer, Brushfire Arts & Literature, The Closed Eye Open, Tiferet Journal, Mud Season Review, Western Michigan Review, Fall 2023, and On the Seawall, Model Home: A Study Under Compression, a photo essay in miniature, April 2023.
