h o m e........
p a s t   i s s u e s....
s u b m i s s i o n s....
l i n k s







The alarm is set, the kitten
on her charger. Unable to sleep
or be slept with I bed down light
again waking up to that oh no
in the night. Lady make me
lady made me break
all my systems
in mere hours fresh
thigh I was printed up
like a plum, insides
runny with love.
Pull over, self. Put on
the pads again prepare
to get jumped. Pull over
I told her I’m going to be sick.
A lady did so feline in her mechanical
toothbrush spendy and artful, articulating
reasons for the wall. Well you see now the wall
protects everybody. My claw marks
straight up it, my nails
in everywhere. A perfect gag
in my lipstick mouth - blue with teeny
white flowers. Forget what’s coming she said
and sink into the cushion of this,
into my warm pit with that safety smell.
Don’t get your heart tied.
I held the flag and signaled the cars
to motion without enough time
to choose my monster. To listen
deeply for the worms of future doom.
They join me now in the opera box
to survey the rubble. They crawl
through my sheets and dangle from
the fan. There’s no gallery like home-
coming. No crypt like warm chamomile.





I let the gin infuse the ice cubes
and bid the stylist, touch me.
Here is my hair a million ways.
Here are the stockings I wore to your funeral.
Flipped all up out of my head vulnerable melon.
All our buildings collapsed with you, each
institution brought my breath out as it buckled.

From your floppy mouth, from your industrial
suffering all down. With you gone, I want
my comportment more perishable, capable of
breaking in more of the right hands, loose
stance in the face of house fire. I want to
be remade by a machine that makes hands.

I’m of an aging age and sex a sack of gifts.
I prefer the mid ways in the falling down
and the hope in the crouch to standing.
I will fold my shirts and eventually I will die.
Enough to say there will be new pronouns for
my objects as they are dispersed. To fold up like a chair,
carried to the party in the park with the fireworks.

And a copy of you that rolled away on a cot
with suspension, your frail echo how the wind
moves round, how to keep is to throw into the blaze.
I too will soon be the reach beyond my analysis,
the stick rather than a tongue extended.

For now, I remain stubbornly correct,
albeit in the corner, albeit dusty.
On the end of my sit, truly.


BIO: Rachel Mindell is an MFA candidate in poetry and MA candidate in English Literature at the University of Montana. Her chapbook A Teardrop and a Bullet will be released in late 2015 by Dancing Girl Press. Individual poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Horse Less Review, DESTROYER, Yemassee, Anti-, Cream City Review, inter|rupture, and elsewhere.

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