A wood hanger used as kindling. A leather notebook cover given by a first love Lord imagine all the refills threads coming apart at the seams like prom boating cabin first everything memories. Little white earbud box covered in German wax smudge found in a hostel named after a fruit one morning after a continental breakfast. Peach. A reading lamp dust covered with Evelyn Waugh adverbs making the bulb bulge with melodrama reflected on wainscoting. Bicycle pump pestle sized could make lewd jokes but this ain’t the place time is short. Lace curtains knotted to allow daylight for sofa dust to exist. Shutters that bang in the wind to Smooth FM radio playing off the TV while the cistern fills could call it a symphony if hearing wasn’t important. Thick wool socks an inheritance from the younger brother only thing he left remember going into his room after the funeral asking what do you want me to have? Empty backpack under the iron bed compass on the handle abandoned from the aborted Camino on the second day after coming down Montserrat’s wrong side the police shut down Igualada and every sunny afternoon thank god the bus out of town ran before the supermarkets emptied. A Bill Withers LP cover sticker price in cruzeiros. A 1977 Black Sparrow paperback of Lucia Berlin’s A Manual for Cleaning Women, every. single. page. dog-eared. Green rubber flip-flops heels worn to tile. Van Morrison’s lyrics Someone exactly like you. No Lego. Dried brown daisies wedges between silver dollars in a three-ringed binder. A stuffed ashtray on a plane’s armrest too full to close. A shitty photo of a wall framed in plastic as if glass was extravagant snickering you will always be renting you will never own minimum wage is your destiny work will never be rewarding stay out of jail. Tangerine peel. Ripped off pumpkin. No soup recipe in memory. Wine bottle olive oil filled by a generous neighbor. Football sized tomatoes waiting to be sundried. Concrete stone beside fire poker as if guffaw doors needed locking as if simper skating down rivers to deliver the news or babies were still a thing. A noose formed by pills. A shark’s pearly teeth hanging around a lover’s neck jackknife thick on a Sunday morning after the oozing chaos after mass sharing one chocolate cone to save money and lick the drips off each other’s wrist. Got to break your neck to see a star in this yard.
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.