BY KEVIN O'CONNOR
Easter Evening
Flowers on the floor in low light
become impossible to discern,
so that the petals bleed in darkness
where a child overturned a bag
newly plucked from the meadow,
but imperceptibly they rise—
governed by the hall mirror,
and on the table a jar of quince marmalade
shadowing pink lace, cracked eggs,
and a plate of ham,
while thorns splinter invisibly
from their stems into dusk, into dust.
xx
Association #3
A stalk is worth a pittance of temerity,
and a bridge constructed of rain
will never overshadow itself,
is what the magistrate offered
in the charge of negligence,
wherein the rotted melons
were produced, and the clerk,
wearing rose eye-shadow,
a wooden crucifix around her neck—
before the judge lowered his gavel,
and bystanders screamed
at the sight of new blood on the wall—
affixed her name to a pad,
while the killer leaped from the balcony
onto a painting of Lincoln’s ghost.
Kevin O'Connor received his M.F.A. from Old Dominion University and has published poetry in numerous journals. He lives in Buffalo, New York.