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.