The chiropractor will say these things never heal. Say come back
weekly to live with it. Take the dog out but no pulling
her back from that tree, can’t restrain
her will since my body. We slide. Inside she paces
and I cook. She whines at the typing. Snow below zero means
she and I till when. Self stretching
out against the shielding. Lower left side, worse
on account of recent slippage
from coats for a swift rise
towards the skylight. A roll
in fresh affection for bad backs.
I woke up on the branch outside come down now. Memory is a disc,
at the door. I find floating
most elegant. Make my appointment.
An old love sought her
security in checking my track.
Had me by the scruff in hope
my heels would glue. I made mistakes I know
they don’t belong to any one being
as they are collective. Column, a series of small
delicate attachments, hole gripping cord. Tomorrow
I’ll see the chiropractor but he’ll never set my woman straight.
Rachel Mindell lives in Tucson, Arizona. She is the author of two chapbooks: Like a Teardrop and a Bullet (Dancing Girl Press) and rib and instep: honey (above/ground). Individual poems have appeared (or will) in Frontier; DIAGRAM; Bombay Gin; BOAAT; Forklift, Ohio; Glass Poetry; The Journal; Sundog Lit; Tammy, and elsewhere. She works for Submittable.