wicked alice| fall 2010

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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.