Tracks
Amy Bouse
Adriana di Gennaro
Maybe it’s not scoliosis that makes my shoulders uneven but the weight of my constant black shoulder bag, my Lady of Perpetual Baggage claim to fame, toting two lip glosses two lipsticks two mascaras a mirror a stick of balm an eyeshadow a blush a cover up a glasses case with glasses and two bobby pins inside, a wallet with IDs from three out of four high school years plus cards from two different movie rental stores and plenty of pennies and nickels but no real cash and a comb and a bottle of water and candy like various car parts and a notebook with every letter in the alphabet scrawled at least once, ribbons and things, uncomfortable jewelry, plus all that empty space so heavy with what I haven’t yet received or obtained, cumbersome with wishes to be in places like Santa Cruz, California, the absence of objects I could have picked up on its beaches are like black holes, they are heavy as lead, little cutout shapes missing but enough to weigh me down.