Ruth Dickey: Echo aria

I want a closet big enough to hold all possible

selves, want under-bed boxes for nightmares,

want cacti and palm trees and bougainvillea and gardenia,

want what can’t possibly grow here or together.

I dreamed my ex came and stole all the things

from two random drawers, dreamed of

trespassing at our old house: the door wouldn’t lock,

and an angry drunk pushed in. I made myself flat

against the wall. I make myself smaller and smaller.

Ugly sounds have the longest echoes. I used to have

this nightmare all the time: that locks were

insufficient. I dine alone, slivering desiccated wings.

I get a massage so someone will touch me,

open closets and doors, hoard hat boxes of dust.