Carry-On

The things we carry.

They are in suede saddlebags
  on a horse I refuse to ride—
Sometimes being bucked off is a sign.
Or locked in an old cedar chest
  where I hold my bedsheets,
    pillowcases that I scream my dreams into
      at night.
Maybe under my fingernails,
  seeping into an open
    bond—you never leave it.
Maybe I carry an empty glass,
  swirling the dirty water
    wishing I could dance.