Tangents I meant to love a dark-eyed man; one who could find my thoughts when I'd landed on a tangent and bring me back home. He was to be the old-fashioned kind: quiet and strong, gentle with his course hands, intense with his looks. His wit, sharp and mischievous, would tangle me up in his tellings; that is, when he chose to elaborate upon the things he found worthwhile to grant his earnest attention to. He would not have been the kind to take over a room, but he would own me in the privacy of our bed. This man, I should've met and married him in my early twenties. I wonder, at times, if I ignored him while I was passing time in taverns, fanning myself over musicians who would have taken me home, but wouldn't have cared for the charm of tangents.
Rachel Nix is a native of Northwest Alabama. She likes coffee in the morning and bourbon at night but rarely knows what time it is otherwise. Her work has most recently appeared in Words Dance, Melancholy Hyperbole, and Bop Dead City. Rachel is the poetry editor at cahoodaloodaling; more of her poetry can be found at: chasingthegrey.com