My Grandmother’s Purse

by Katie Dunn

It feels like a lump of rotting sheepskin,
Rough and hard like bark from a tree,
The smell of ageing coins stain my hand,
Ancient bus tickets and faded pictures of Grampa and I
Lurk in the folds,
Leaping out like fish in a choppy black sea,
Bits of plastic hide in the other nooks,
Messy heaps of CDs,
The zip eases shut: doors on a cupboard,
To conceal all that is hidden inside.