and the world starts over,
fossils climb out of their caves,
glaciers swerve north
and circle the arctic
like confused seagulls.
She digs deep into
that mystery of things
snatched out of the air
and swallowed,
things she keeps to herself.
No one explains to the boy
how this purse weights
his mother to the ground,
how without it she'd streak
like a comet back toward
the first penny of time.
I hand my mother her purse
and she's lost to the moment,
mumbling into its fullness,
the mouth unclasped and yawning,
all her mind coming loose,
fingers working through the heap
like a knot of worms.