Laura M. Dixon
Poem for the Friend Who Packed My Husband's Closet
I like her voice about as much as I like anything
these days; more than television,
less than popsicles and sleep.
People forget, she says, how deeply you can love
someone who helped you to wreck your life.
Stephanie's always talking in other people's poems.
Just before Steph got separated, she told us
she was moving to Chicago. Everyone
eating curry; slow nods, forks hitting plates,
unspeakable relief when her husband
went outside to smoke.
Separation: Getting lost at the mall.
Cut apart at the joints like a chicken.
Not emptiness; swallowing
a thousand cold, round marbles.
It's so uneventful, filling boxes with shoes
and shirts. His skeletons all clichés;
I won't even tell you. She works methodically,
sweeps the closet floor when she's through.
It's my turn, she says. This is concrete,
this I know how to do.
Laura Dixon’s work recently appeared in Front Porch and Apparatus Magazine.