A poem from a sunny Friday morning in August 2022; and finding new artifacts.

THOSE ARTIFACTS SHE ALLUDED TO

a perfectly folded printout of directions to the Indiana Dunes, and perfect spots to go to there
now creased from weeks in the trunk with all of the rest

a slightly worn pair of burgendy danskos she 
got for a Las Vegas wedding,
her second,
2 years later packing boxes to leave him
the final giving them to a Medical Assistant at the office
because you can't wear heals anymore
this age
falling down the stairs
balance
it goes away
when you're body starts losing its life

journals that meant something and probably don't
today

things actually do change
even the understanding of objects

one glove without a match

an empty plastic garbage can still unpacked from the last apartment

bills opened, envelopes discarded, stacked neatly and waiting to be paid
including the copay from Regions where she was hospitalized after the 
attempt

c'mon - who can pay something like that
Thousands of dollars - a price on trying to finally be free

shampoo samples from hotel rooms supposed to bring the spark back

burnt down candles 
homemade oil
and magic spells on frail paper,
she used to be a witch
she used to do spells
she used to believe in them

unwashed sweaters, since the studio in Wrigleyville

poems before she "believed" she was a good writer, 
before she thought she had to be

reminders
all of them
failed attempts to make this life mean something
to squeeze some juice out of an ambiguous foreign fruit
to feel something
to say something
to remember something
to share something
to be something
to be

and now, the thought that nothing more should be attempted
not trips to the dunes or shoes or marriages or writing or clean sweaters

maybe she doesn't believe in alchemy anymore