Three Poems / by Mandee Driggers



       my bird
       my yolk
        -ry mar
         Be hel
       -ium; la
    -tex; pop
  -ping heat
         of sun.






Near Her

The smoky bar between an Office Building and a Sex Toy Shop:
where you couldn’t smoke cigarettes; couldn’t
drink beer;
brewing hushed phrases over grainy laughter:

Confess then:

Because sinners
make better poets
and we can go back
to being whores
on Monday.







I focused on the flakes.
My depth perception,
troubled by baby ghosts:
Ash of an entire carton of 120s.

If love was our accident
it was-no-head-on-collision—
mundane inter
section: I’ve never been good
with maps. I was a glove compartment.

In me a flashlight, a flare gun
you didn’t know how to use.
Night a salt-n-pepper fight
television screen, dead cable.

No point in seeing where
we were headed. Wherever
it was we were going
to get there anyway.






Mandee Driggers is a queer writer residing in the Twin Cities where she balances her disdain for winter with her love of community and craft beer. Her work has been published in BlazeVox, Bitchin' Kitsch, and is upcoming in CrabFat Magazine.