Dion O’Reilly
Closet
I
She wanted her father to stop her mother,
but he couldn’t.
I suck my thumb and mess my pants,
she said as he took her to third grade
on his way to work. Still dark.
No breakfast. Her insides screaming.
The dirty shirt she’d slept in.
The janitor let her in. She waited
in front of a burping heater, nursed her thumb
till the rest arrived in a raucous wave.
II
On the ranch, she looked at the sun, wondered
if another world spun on its far side,
understood the language of crows
screaming in ravines, heard ticking teeth
beneath the lawn as Father mowed.
Mumbled to himself. Softly cried.
III
Crouched in her closet, she studied
the vaulted architecture of her mind,
saw whole lives there. Drew them by feel
on walls behind the clothes, pushed
a pencil into the soft wood. Felt a shivering
contentment as she drew, slowly
shit herself. Filled the air with stench.
IV
No prince lived in her closet. Just me,
she whispered. Squeezed
her anal sphincter with delight.
Holding back. Letting go.
Dion O’Reilly is the author of Ghost Dogs (Terrapin Books, 2020). Her work has appeared in Narrative, New Ohio Review, The Massachusetts Review, New Letters, Sugar House Review, Rattle, The Sun, Tupelo Quarterly, and other journals and anthologies. O’Reilly has spent much of her life on a farm in the Santa Cruz Mountains, working at various times as a theater manager, graphic designer, and public school teacher, among other occupations.
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