Spring Sonnet 2: Evening Bag Perched on a Condemned Pile

An evening bag perched on a condemned pile
Carelessly flings me back to quondam

life. Below, my old stuffs’ siren calls beguile

my sentiments to secure their freedom.

"You loved me once; I served you well!" they chant

begging for grace; but it’s my past that pleads

absolution from a deceived present

and seeks to amend unknowing misdeeds.

That bag was not a bag but a passport

To anywhere else. But now the burden

Of continuing on encumbered thwarts

My whispered prayer for transfiguration.

My pile evicted; my amen disguised

As giving, and so my ghosts are exorcised.

-Abigail Ramsay