A Catalogue of the Morass at the Bottom of My Purse

2,402 hair elastics. Five functional. 

A single feather from behind the ear of a cockatrice. Smells vaguely of cinnamon. 

Three flattened gel capsules of Advil, miraculously still intact. 

One flattened gel capsule of Advil, predictably not intact. 

One porous lump of void, blinking in and out of this reality. 

A ticket stub from the aquarium I visited five weeks ago. 

Receipt from Trader Joe’s for seven bags of marshmallows, one bottle of multivitamins, a single asparagus spear. 

The sandal you thought you lost at the beach last summer. You know, the strappy one. 

A folding knife that has slit the midsections of countless Amazon boxes. 

One Pentel R.S.V.P Extra Fine Point pen. The only ballpoint worth consideration.

Suspiciously gritty pennies. Taste like blood and brown hair. 

A thin stratum of mucosal fluid from a swordfish. 

The Kit Kat wrapper I licked while dangerously hungry on the highway. 

Faded love letter from the Duke, for whom I still cherish a complicated yet lasting regard.

Crumbs, assorted.