You work with doll pieces and cigar
boxes. Mirrors reflect limbs
suspended on toothpicks.
You bend to touch the tablecloth,
and pull tightly across an
The earth knows your name
and you live on its skin as
a benevolent parasite.
Your home is ringed by live oaks
and run across with softly
When you die, you leave a hole in
the fabric of the universe.
The hole rests in your former study,
regardless of the Earth’s
superposition. It eats shadows.
Dan O'Connell studied music and creative writing at Tulane University. He currently lives in New Orleans.
It continues to snow dust.
The sun comes out of the closet.
Jays enter under the door
jumping over a line of air.
Maybe it was just the light,
cracked somewhere, leaked out,
lucky—I thought you shifted away
in voice, my mouth to hear,
My senses are a cushion, and yet this horror appears to taste my morrow. My alarms are useless because they are on fire with the rest of my home.
Be honest now—
just for a minute; I cried.
I had him locked out—
a perfectly good wish.
Privately, for over a year now you drove off and left me.
The place cooled down beaming and bright—
put my name on a silencer (it’s not the end of the world).
In the mirror, the wooden bust of Christ Nicodemus carved
and Joseph commended to the sea, stares out for reflection.
Only a true spell
of fittingly glamorous phenomena
repaired sunstruck imagination—
Too big for your body, the whale of a bed will go on sale; also the dresser, its
three-linked mirrors tall as sails.
The Nazis are back in town.
No, I know. They never, ever left.