That April Night
The air was part of it.
I watched his red car lights
ease down the driveway,
his bags in the trunk.
I might have waved from the kitchen
but his head was turned.
Was he listening to the jazz station?
I stepped outside.
Early crickets were fiddling.
I could smell the angel trumpets,
could hear a dog barking nearby.
Through its cataracts, the moon,
an occluded eye, was watching.
Why can’t I be like an angel’s trumpet?
Decisive.
Exotic smelling,
poisonous.
I watched his taillights get smaller,
disappear onto St. Andrew’s Road.
The moon and I?
We’re both blind.
I can only see
the night’s darkness,
the crazy moon
and a future of deadly regret.
• • •
Suzanne O’Connell’s recently published work can be found in North American Review, Paterson Literary Review, Poet Lore, The Menacing Hedge, Steam Ticket, American Chordata, Typishly, Litbreak, Ghost City Review, and Forge. She was awarded second place in the 2019 Poetry Super Highway poetry contest. O’Connell was also nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize and received Honorable Mention in the Steve Kowit Poetry Prize, 2019. Her two poetry collections, A Prayer For Torn Stockings and What Luck were published by Garden Oak Press.