Can’t mend nets in flood. No sense drifting down the gutter go butts masks guppies yesterday’s sausage batter fat batten down the hatches no reprieve to rise. See that fridge floating down Main, board and arm paddle use cord as stern line don’t draw attention dice the selves add more garlic. Harness named drops sprinkle any spice not yet drowned bloomed look there! The alter-boy young you wading armpit deep shielding lit fat advent candle with ladle palm robe stained seed-yellow from trespasses do not revisit ticket expired envision all indulgences. Keep gob eye nostril shut. Be brave take one for the team which has no I in it who knew—Brussel sprouts floated—you are the wrong.
Illusion please pass the delusion sea salt mad riff off sphere glare jam a cork wedge under the window between still and pain. Pray harder nothing else opens slosh slosh order the bill with a side of insurance policy guzzle homemade old-fashioneds under bifocals the tender’s arms a bargepole ask Father Nelligan to pull the ax from our eye. Quick stolen wine chalice spilling we’ve seen the ripple our whole bloody lives battling stain.
That mutt rain threatens return. Walk it off. Talk it away. We believed life jackets would float bodies. The waves are slapping the castle walls now. Dice those onions finer, a final royal command as the umbrellas turn trombone slides, wind fantastic. The Zydeco symphony low front drifts toward higher ground. Wet suit. Oxygen.
Dear Saints, hide the hysteria, that tanker on the horizon is assault not rescue.
David Morgan O’Connor is from a small village on Lake Huron. After many nomadic years, he is based in Albuquerque, where a novel and MFA progresses. His writing has appeared in; Barcelona Metropolitan, Collective Exiles, Across the Margin, Headland, Cecile’s Writers, Bohemia, Beechwood, Fiction Magazine, After the Pause, The Great American Lit Mag (Pushcart nomination) , The New Quarterly and The Guardian. Tweeting @dmoconnorwrites.