The Bottom Drawer

by Lydia Popowich

I love lying in my own stink,
fish and piss masking the toxic  
naphthalene of grandma’s
candlewick bedspread, nylon
nightie and flannelette sheets.
My safe space, the bottom
drawer filled with has-beens
and shady dreams. All’s grey

in this echo chamber of my fears.
I count my breaths, ponder
the sanctity of prime numbers.
There’s  a shaft of light, an escape
hatch. I’ve seen a spider come
and go. I’m staying put. The last
time I popped out wild dogs
were snarling at my boundaries.