Rachel Mindell

A glow marks the doing or going. I live this
before but much better. In  that time 
having forgotten what noise for an
ambulance. You sketching no thing novel,
me              as                   I              appear
shadowed on sundown. Our house of newly
square                  practice                   resoled
by        promise,           skyward         with
minimal     routine,    Saturday      leisure.
Each door at least two uses and just one
teensy                                                       hole,
the   fat   wall     of   three-toned   paint.
New       words       arrive       each       day,
yelping       sudden       ivy       and     up-dos.
Money  in   the  mail. A   newspaper’s   bang
each morning and dinner party lala. Creamy
French             dressing,             compliments,
of    exact      proportion.    The      cushions
refusing     lollygag.     The      cushions
frightfully         aligned.         I         mature
overly sensitive, grow a touch screen. Very
good        Botox        indeed.       Nothing
going like habit, fall comes again, but we
don’t                          have                          to.
A          sudden          impulse       to      write
about      sighs      that       turn      gasping.
Long        hours        reading        directions
amid     warnings     on     the     Comet     can.
An                   awkward                compulsion
to          replay     the          scenario        where
vats               of               sudden              acid
fire                 burn                up               soap
stars                  who                come         back
alive                    another                    season
played          by          a           new          actor.
Here,          my          baloney          sandwich,
spiked      with      venom,      a      meditation.
The  parallels  between  that  lovely  slew
and the    weight     of this blanketed room.


Imagine we had never known a confine. That we had been left to imagine a world multiplied six times by six wide, by prospect. Instead you imagine the sound of my voice as I hurled it from a car headed north or imagine the way I might, from the road in drugstore sunglasses imagine your figure, watching television or reading or muttering

imagine that over, over until it lost meaning. You go to sleep, sleep and imagine that I’m there, waving from a yard flooded, there are sheep that imagine me their slaughterer
and you, a gyro. The kitchen, imagine is being demolished by enemies once friends now with money, they imagine we ought to be shaken up, trammeled to greater style.

Imagine the dream takes minutes, always, is instantaneous. You come to imagine chaos
of waking in standing water that floats the oven. Imagine the charge. Your attempt
to envision a return, mine, or to imagine someone shaking your arm, the alarm sounding that one might imagine, still under, as the noise a bomb makes on countdown from ten.

You might imagine that the bed is rising just before your eyes open and then imagine
it falling with a snap that startles the apartment to how you imagine an old dawn to which we awoke, broke and biking it to imagine a day where instead of the coffee I stand bedside to offer, you imagine a key, a hand pointed simultaneously at six adjacent doors.

Rachel Mindell is an MFA candidate in poetry and MA candidate in English Literature at the University of Montana. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Cream City Review, Anti-, Horse Less Review, The Destroyer, Delirious Hem, inter|rupture, Pity Milk and elsewhere.