ikea

by Matthew Stokdyk

The nightstand was assembled precisely by its IKEA instructions;
each piece was laid out and organized, arranged, and straightened.

Construction was sequential. Each dowel was inserted with care
and each screw was tightened until little give remained.

After assembly, it was fitted exactly in the room,
an equidistant three inches from the wall, bed, and bookshelf.

Then a paper towel was taken, and wetted, and rung,
and each surface (save the bottom, I am not mad) was wiped down,

except the top and inside portions, which were first sanitized
and left to dry fully, and then wiped down,

and then everything was dried with two paper towels,
thus ensuring all pollution was removed from the furniture.

Sterile, it was ready for filling. But it stood half-empty:
the bottom drawer was quickly fed clothing

while the top remained hungry.
My effects had grown rather impersonal,

and thus there was nothing to store there
that could not be kept in pockets.

There was no lover, and thus it could not hold
hair bands or dental dams or love letters.

But soon enough I found a use, and filled it full
with select dishes and sparse cutlery.

I had grown afraid of the kitchen, and the miasma
that inhabited it, and could not bring myself

to even touch what remained there unwashed.
So I segregated a portion and scrubbed for two hours

and kept them in my room. It didn’t do much good, though,
since I could only wash them when alone,

meaning I could only eat at home when alone
with enough time to scrub afterwards. So it was easier

just to stop eating, more or less. But it was fine.
The drawer, at least, was more personal than ever.