27 | Literary Arts | Pittsburgh | Pittsburgh City Paper

Last night
drunk off
Pabst, my
go to
metal show drink
I multiplied until
you'd have to help
me to the car.

In Keith's bed, the past
year played out
in my head, every little thing like
the way you looked in a Type O Negative
tee and black jeans and the way your
voice got low when you told me you loved me.
Our second date, the night we sat
on the dock for an hour and I knew
I wanted to be with you.
The night at banquet where I called you my
Texas plunder, a prisoner I rescued off the ship.
The night I went to Cleveland with the band
we searched for White Castle for three hours.

— Rachella Angel

Rachella Angel's work appears in The Critical Point. She lives in Carnegie.

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