Rachel Mindell is a queer writer living in Tucson. Her third chapbook, "May/be," was just released by Tammy. Individual poems have appeared (or will) in Black Warrior Review, Denver Quarterly, DIAGRAM, Foglifter, Sycamore Review, and elsewhere. She works for the University of Arizona Poetry Center and Submittable.
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Heights
You could come lose or get tight, feel loaded or float on by. You might show juiced or leave faded. The room purple to your dress is brown. If you were lifted you were lucky on the shoulders of the night. If you’ve gotten down, you’re getting hotter, higher so when the music stops, find a chair for your head, a shade for your staircase straw. It sips and so it slips. Escapes are for fires, ladders for treed cats. If you roll with it, beware the glass. You’ll stick. Your top all tipsy and your legs of liquid brick. Courage is a crapshoot, not that you won’t find it but where you might choose to let fall. First-floor windows are still quite tall. |