by Rachel Mindell 

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,

a knock
                                   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 FrontierDIAGRAMBombay GinBOAATForklift, OhioGlass PoetryThe JournalSundog LitTammy, and elsewhere. She works for Submittable.