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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. |
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