Ivy Catledge
My Suitcase Hands
I've felt the weight of perfumed cities.
raked my fingers through History's scars.
My suitcase hands have carried cups of silence
to eyes swimming through stinging memories.
Then packed away pages from yesterday's journal
for when their value will write their own check.
My suitcase hands don't need polaroids
to remember what the breeze felt like in April.
They will fold up sweaters stitched with butter and lavender,
souvenirs for my typewriter.
50 pounds of the world in my palm.