5 New Poems by Mindy Gill

By | 1 September 2023


The birds talk of nothing. I turn the radio on, the DJ spins
his best mix of nothing. At the park, I throw nothing
for the dog, who chases after it. I brew a pot, get dressed
drive late to work. I run a stop sign, crash
into nothing. I’ve been avoiding

reflective surfaces: windows, mirrors, the kitchen
knife. The burns the matches leave
behind my knee are too small, do nothing.
I ring my therapist then think better of it:
I’m not wasting $200 on nothing.
The stars shrug off their velvet

hoods, night’s armed to the teeth with cicadas.
The pills aren’t working. Nothing’s working.
I’ll do nothing with my life.

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