White Jasmine & Mint

Wear me in your flesh
Not as ink
But as white jasmine and mint
So I may bloom within you each night
And remind you of warm comfort
When you feel you are at your weakest

E.A. O'Connell

Spoon

Parents always warn of the sharp blade of the knife and the pointed tines of the fork, but they never warn of the unassuming curve of the spoon…I learned this the hard way one night during a ginger grating mishap that left my thumb bleeding and stinging…and the first thought my mind went to was of you…. 

E.A. O'Connell

Solid Advice

Long abandoned train tracks that run straight into a concrete wall.

Some say the perfect metaphor for the small town life.

Every time I stare at them,

I see the answer for getting out.

Why haven’t I listened to such solid advice?

E.A. O'Connell

Where Do They All Go?

Where do all the letters and words go?  

When the cursor stops, momentarily disappearing, but fingers keep typing? 

Do these absent letters and hidden words, the misplaced thoughts, all the enigmatic punctuation, have an ultimate destination?  

Where they join in the language abyss, writing their own poetry, their own stories with anonymous form?

E.A. O'Connell

You Remind Me

You remind me of the tempting drain

Placed at the very bottom of the deep end of the pool

The one I feared tremendously as a child

I was convinced some small part of me would get stuck within an opening of that drain

And I’d drown under the weight of the water

Robbing my lungs of the air needed to keep me afloat 

More often than not

I find myself staring at you

And as I start to dive into the depths of you 

And why I want to look that deep inside you

I startle from that familiar fear

That a small part of me will get stuck within you

And I’ll be consumed by the desire to trust you

Love you

And I feel my lungs being robbed of the air I need to survive

So I retreat to the surface

Taking a deep breath

And diverting my eyes

E.A. O'Connell

Hope For Us All

I was driving behind a holy man today

Unsure if he was a priest, a pastor, or a reverend

He was holy, nonetheless…well I assume…he had a cross and one of those fish symbols and a telling license plate frame and various other holy accoutrements on his car

I couldn’t help but notice that his pearly white Buick, shone so bright in the afternoon sun

And then I laughed out loud, thinking about the pearly white car and the pearly gates of heaven, and realizing this couldn’t all be a coincidence

And then I began to wonder if this man, this man of God, was truly perfect or was there a possibility he was just as imperfect as me, as the whole lot of us it would seem

And not being a religious person, I have a strong faith, but no specific religious affiliation, I wondered if thinking about this holy person as a sinner was considered a sin and that maybe I should cut him off and flag him down to get some religious education there on the side of the road

But out of nowhere he floored it and he was through the red light and coasting down the road to wherever his destination was

And while sitting at the red light, watching that holy man who just blew a red light, disappear from sight

I thought to myself

Maybe there’s hope for us all

E.A. O'Connell

My Moon

I was always enamored with the moon

How he seemed to smile lovingly upon me

And made me feel secure, following behind or beside, everywhere I travelled

But then came the day, walking me home beneath that trusted friend, when I told you my thoughts about the moon

And all you could do was laugh at me, mocking my affinity for him, correcting my inaccuracies and telling me that there was no man in the moon, humans are just programmed with a facial recognition system  

And you were right

Because in that moment, under his trusted glow, I was able to see your two faces

So I let my moon guide me home 

E.A. O'Connell

Castaways

Your kiss would be an island

Afloat amongst the sun born freckles

That splay across the back of my shoulder

Like birds in flight

Your kiss would sink deep within

Lost to the naked eye like Atlantis

But it would be a private poem written into my flesh

To carry with me through this life

As a reminder of who we were

That late summer eve

E.A. O'Connell

Missing

He said I miss you

I told him he missed the idea of me

And ideas can be put into motion or fade

And I choose to fade

In the hopes I will dissolve like a stream of watercolor

On a scrap piece of paper

That he hangs on a far wall of his mind

Maybe…with the chance of being rediscovered

But most likely to be covered over

Layer upon layer

And somehow

I find a great beauty in the latter

E.A. O'Connell

He Sees Only The Pebbles

He runs and stoops

Picking up and tucking into

Pockets overflowing

Hands frustrating

He can’t steal them all

He wants the color

To rub off on his flesh

And his mind is overflowing

With thoughts

Spurred by the cold, smooth surfaces

His eyes see beauty where I’ve never tread

His mind knows how to process

What I can’t verbalize

I follow him closely

Having learned the water brings about anxiety

But excited that shells deposited along the shore

Elicit such great joy

He scampers and skips

Free to be himself in the uninhabited evening

As loud as he needs to be

As quiet as the sea will allow

He loops back around

Stuffing my pockets

And then off he goes

I fill my hand with his treasures

Opening it to find

Pebbles

While I’m admiring the shells and glass

The driftwood and seaweed

And the miscellaneous trinkets left by the sea

Reflecting on the beauty in their colors, shapes, and textures

He sees only the pebbles

Black, gray, and white

And I loved him even more in that moment

E.A. O'Connell

My Fear

I fear…so I write

Then I fear…because I’ve written

And all because I have voices that can’t ever be silenced

And when my mind has erased the history I made

The voices recorded on paper

Will refill my head with tales

That I’ll be able to live

Unaware I’ve already lived

But what scares me the most

Are the faces I’ve painted into words  

And the inability that will afflict me

To read the love for those tucked into my works

For the loves, the lovers, the lovingly admired strangers

And I fear that my heart won’t be able to recognize the differences

And we will all be strangers mingling amongst the wilds

Never touching

E.A. O'Connell

Your Evils Are Lovely

Your evils are lovely, he said

I’d eat you alive, was my reply

My love for you would be haunting

My sex more menacing

You’d think I was a succubus alight in your bed

And I…may…very well…be

You would know nothing more than the uninhibited passion

That would leave residual sensation across your wearying body

Leaving you lit with a wanting for my lip prints and fingertips

Burying themselves in and through your flesh and muscle

To your hardened bones

My whispered words licking trails of wicked thoughts

From your curvaceous ear to vulnerable neck to dark trailed navel

Becoming the sinister marrow that would nurture and sustain you

As I’d mercilessly take every last drop of life

Each inconsistent breath from your body

Robbing you of rational thought

And being ever the generous ghost

Allowing your flirtation with sleep to grow awkward

Letting her pull you from me

Seducing you to dreams

Beyond the smile born from a menage a trois maybe

Your still would signal the hour upon which I’d take my abrupt leave

To let you cool in a solitary fevered slumber

Twilight bed laced with my dark wanton scent

Of cypress, cloves, and embers still smoldering red

Your sheets baring the careless labyrinths

Mapped by my serpentine evils

Writhing atop and within the shroud of pale flesh

That clings to your bones

Like an impressionable blanket of December snow

E.A. O'Connell

A Dream Within A Dream

Sometimes I think you’re a dream

Within a dream

Escaping my mind

As I sleep

And burrowing deep

To the center of my heart

So when I wake

I’ll know you’re the truth

E.A. O'Connell

I Imagine...

I imagine that your laughter would remind me of marigolds

Bursting forth in a commanding orange

That would warm my face in the glow of an indestructible smile

And I’m certain that it would cling to my memory

Like the life affirming scent of sunlight after torrential rain

E.A. O'Connell

Written Into My Hands

I wrote you into my hands long before they held you

Tracing circles in my palms

As I anxiously awaited

In that cramped bathroom

Seated on the cold ledge of a gaping tub

Afraid to see my hopes dashed in a urine soaked stick

The foul-mouthed tub taunting me with thoughts of emptiness

Far too many anticipated smiles wept into those very palms

The tears collecting and streaming through the gutter fine ridges

All for the loss of someone I never knew

Never had

I wrote you into my hands long before they held you

Lining up my fingers and palms as if to pray

But finding it more fitting to clench them into fists

In the waiting rooms, doctor’s offices, and phlebotomists’ chairs

As files of paperwork and black and white ultrasound glow

Confirmed that dipping hormones and the crushing silence of tiny chest

Would highlight my face ashen with grief in the loss of such blessed morning sickness

I wrote you into my hands long before they held you

Hands splayed across the tomb of the unknown son

A name fit for features yet to be revealed

To be laid to rest in a numbing moment laced with local anesthesia

As I lay silent in a surgically sanitized room

Lit by invasive electricity and monitors that knew far too much about me

All the endless apologies for genetic faults I couldn’t even explain to myself

I wrote you into my hands long before they held you

In the redemption

That grateful handshake from a man

Who had more answers than sorrows to reveal

Almost one year from that solemn date

And in my second trimester

He sent me down my path of expectant motherhood

With the most appropriate parting words

…I hope to never see your face again…

And directed me into the strong hands of the woman who just six months later

Would gently coax you into this world

And into my hands

Writing memories into the satin soft pockets nestled within my palms

And now I look at your delicate hands

So tiny and unaware of the world that awaits them

And I wonder what will become of their porcelain star shaped form

As you explore your world and find  

That your hands will write some of the greatest stories ever told

E.A. O'Connell

Every Man's Time Comes

They stand beside the small ecru and gray veined marble topped kitchen island that Natalie repurposed as her private baking station; her daily culinary hobby on permanent repeat …rolling out dough and experimenting with various sweet and savory fillings, and always over thinking the perfect designs to add or cut into the crusts she handles with a skilled anxiety.   Ron samples some spanakopita Natalie had made that afternoon, trying to fill some time before her evening plans commenced.  She spent the whole time rereading the recipe and triple checking each step, as her mind was on another page, simmering in worry, sprinkled with curiosity, and just a dash of fear.  Taking a bite of his second flaky phyllo pillow Ron’s face shifts to an unimpressed design of eyebrows and lip lines.

“Not your best work Nat.”  He pops the remainder of the snack into his mouth and chases it down with a sip of his beer.

Natalie knows her true talent is in hand painting ceramics and porcelain, but she desperately wants to try and learn new skills.  In a meek, shamed voice Natalie acknowledges her mistake.  “I know.  My head and heart were elsewhere, so I’m afraid the food is lacking the love I normally put into it.”

Ron’s countenance shifts to amusement as he takes another jab at Natalie.  “Come on!  You don’t believe that bullshit about food taking in the emotions you feel while cooking it, do you?”

With her eyes looking past his, Natalie quietly answers, “I don’t know.  There has to be something to it, I guess.  People talk all the time about adding love to their food, so why not…maybe it’s possible…I don’t know.”

Passing her off as a lost cause, Ron changes the topic.  “I had to clean vomit off of my welcome mat again this morning.  This was, like, the third time this week.  I think I need to either call animal control to have a trap set or have security cameras put in so I can find out which neighborhood bastard is disrespecting my house.  You know, this has been going on for about a fucking year now and I’m tired of it.”

Natalie wants to desperately ask why it’s taken him so damn long to come to this conclusion, but she thinks better of it.  She doesn’t want him rushing out in a huff leaving her to host their visitor on her own.  She opts for a simple reply.  “That sounds like a good idea.”

Ron sips his beer, trying to cleanse his palate from Natalie’s latest culinary failure, as the kitchen lights flicker and dim, remaining at a low wattage.  They both look to the lights, and then at each other, raising eyebrows and smiling as nervous laughter skips from their lips into the otherwise silent room.  Ron uses this as an opportunity to broach the subject they keep skirting around.

“So you just called?  Like that?”

Natalie sighs and answers, “Yes.  It’s what he wanted, so I did it.”

Ron’s curiosity is beyond piqued and he’s dying to know what she does.  “How exactly did this play out again?”

“Attached to the sealed envelope that he addressed to this person, was a smaller unsealed envelope, addressed to me.”

“And he left a note telling you to call?”

“Not exactly.  All he did was leave a name and information on how to contact the individual.”

“But he didn’t say you had to?”

“No, but I think it was implied.”

“I don’t know…this is all too weird.”

“I know, but it’s what he wanted, so I’m doing it for him.”

“And this person’s coming here now?”

“Well, sometime tonight.  I don’t know if it’s now…I just know to expect a visit soon.”

Smiling, Ron can’t help but ask, “Did you open the one envelope to see what it said?”

Natalie is appalled.  “God, no!  That would go against what he wanted, and I couldn’t do that to him.”

Feeling slightly insulted by her tone , Ron replies, “I sure as hell would’ve opened it.”

In a flat voice, she answers, “I guess that’s what separates us then.”

He’s growing angrier with each of her responses.  “Whatever.  So what do you know about this person?”

“I’d never heard of him or her before this and I didn’t speak to them directly or meet them, so your guess is as good as mine.  If I’m to be honest, I never knew people like this existed.”

Ron can’t hide his shock.  “Okay, wait, you didn’t set this up with the actual person directly?”

“No.  I had to set it up through one guy, who contacted another guy who speaks to this person directly.  That guy set it up.”

“Natalie this is fucking ridiculous.  You are dealing with second and third parties and not with the actual individual.  You are getting fucking taken.”

“No!  That’s not true.  I know this person’s coming.”

“Really?!”

“Yes!  I got confirmation and money changed hands and it’s been set in motion.”

“Christ!  You can be so fucking dumb!  You already paid for a service that wasn’t completed.”

“No Ron, Wade paid for the service…okay?  If anyone was the dumb fuck it was him.  Just sit back and have another beer.  They’ll be here.”

Ron takes his seat at the head of the antique dining table, leaning his back into the rickety chair with a frustrated posture, sipping his lukewarm beer and mumbling under his breath, “I can’t believe we even have to do this.  Just wish we could put all this behind us once and for all.”

Standing at the oversized bay window, Natalie embraces her body with crossed arms, gently stroking the sleeves of the shell pink angora sweater she’s wearing, peering through the seeded glass of one of the many diamond shaped panes, unknowingly biting her lower lip, straining her eyes for the first faint hint of headlights on the dark cobblestone driveway.  She looks left then right one last time, before turning her attention to Ron in the breakfast nook.  His back may be to her, but having known him for the better part of two decades she can tell he’s still very angry with her and the entire situation.  She turns back to the window and raises her petite frame on ballet trained tiptoes, getting her forehead right up to the cold glass, looking right and then left one last time, before releasing her arms and walking to the breakfast nook.  Standing behind Ron, she gently places her hands on his shoulders and leisurely rubs them down his toned arms, where they linger at the crooks of his elbows for just a moment, before she takes the seat next to him.  He shifts his posture so he is leaning more in her direction and gives her a half apologetic smile.  She returns it with more sincerity.

“What do you want to talk about?”

“What I’ve brought up before and you keep sidestepping...our relationship.”

“Ron, I…”

“Let me finish!  I really think I should leave Ailis, that way you and I can finally give our relationship a real chance.  It’s been almost four years, and all I’ve really learned in that time with her is that you shouldn’t marry someone twenty-three years your junior after three months of great sex.  Things just don’t work with her anymore, and all it makes me wonder is if we were ever really compatible, and the answer I always come back to is ‘No.’  I work days and she’s always working night shifts.  We barely even speak anymore and we never spend time together, and our sex life has completely deteriorated…no great sex anymore…and when we do spend any time together it’s nothing but uncomfortable silences, and she shows no interest in me sexually…ever…she even comes to bed naked and ignores me…do you have any idea what that does to me…and when I do initiate sex, she just brushes me off with a cold shoulder.  I can’t ignore the fact that I did start noticing a change in her about a year ago, and I’ve speculated if she knows about us…don’t you think, though, if she did, she would’ve confronted us already, or at least me.  I keep waiting for divorce papers to be served, but they never come.  I wonder if she knows and has a bigger punishment in store for me…like I have to pay for the divorce, and alimony, and give her the house…oh fuck, she’s going to take me for everything I’ve got.  There’d be no reason to stick around if she knew I was sleeping with you, so maybe she doesn’t know...or maybe she’s sleeping with someone else.  Maybe I’m just being paranoid…but I swear if she is fucking around behind my back, I’ll make her pay.  And now with Wade’s passing, what do you think, should I just come clean, so you and I can finally be together.  You know you’re all I ever wanted and I was just foolishly wasting time with her until I could have you all to myself.”

Natalie’s head spins from Ron’s unceasing, self-pitying monologue.  Unable to bite her tongue on the topic, Natalie tries her best to keep a collected tone to her voice.  It’s kind of hard, when all that’s racing through her mind are thoughts of Ron sleeping with her, a forty-four year old woman, and his young twenty-seven year old wife…comparing their bodies, skills, agility.  She fiddles with the skinny gold bracelets Wade gifted her on a long ago happy birthday morning, her slender fingers feeling beyond the gold, to circle her delicate wrist.  “Oh, I see, you’ll leave her and just jump right into a public relationship with me.  She’s not dumb Ron, she’d piece that puzzle together, if she hasn’t already, along with everyone else in this town.  Maybe you need to think about this more, before you make such a life altering decision.”  She turns her back to him in the direction of the window, she’s pretty much heard enough from him for one evening, and if she wasn’t so nervous about being alone in the house with her visitor, she’d kindly ask him to leave.

He rolls his angering eyes and sips his beer, but decides it may be best to accept her response at this time.  Silence settles between them for a few moments, he picking and peeling the dampened label of his beer, his eyes unable to stay off of her girlish figure for too long.  He studies the line of pearl buttons that trail the ridges of her spine, before he redirects his fingers to the lower button, popping it open.  She turns and playfully slaps his hand back, but he swiftly grabs her by the waist, pulling her to him as he lets his left hand navigate her stomach to her small, bare breasts, his right hand flirting with the second button.  He speaks to the back of her head.  “Let’s turn the lights out and be done with Wade’s ridiculous request.”

She feels herself succumbing to Ron’s manipulative powers, and she can’t help thinking that it would be more entertaining to be in bed with Ron, than hosting a stranger her dead husband invited without her knowledge or permission.  Natalie begins to lean her head into his neck, when a singular echoing tap on the window pane of the kitchen door, pulls her back to reality and the questionable purpose of the entire evening.  She instantly gathers herself, buttoning up her sweater as she walks away from Ron without so much as a backwards glance, almost as if her body and mind were summoned and controlled by that single tap, and Ron had no romantic influence over her at all in that moment…or possibly ever.

As Natalie walks to the door, she can’t see anything but black night filling the nine square panes of glass.  She’s puzzled by the absence of a person at the door, but when she gets a couple feet away, she thinks she sees a dark figure set against the deep night.  She unlocks the door and opens it, startled and gasping from the surprise of a black velvet and silk cloaked figure standing in shadows that loom at the dimly lit portal. 

Holding her thin neck with her slender fingers, Natalie’s trembling voice can’t quite gather the strength needed to hide her intimidation.  “Ccome in please.  Welcome.”

Her cloaked visitor, head still bowed, slips past her like liquid silver, trailing a scent of cloves and sweet fruit that reminds Natalie of a black cherry tea she and Wade sipped over laughter and fond memories at a Russian restaurant he favored.  Her visitor carries a large relic of a carpet bag, hands obscured by the cavernous bell sleeves of the cloak.

Her dark guest stands statuesque before her petite body.  Ever the polite hostess, Natalie attempts to make small conversation.  “Can I take your coat or your bag? Get you a drink or a bite to eat?”

With one slow, singular sweep of the head, the silent visitor answers no.

Natalie isn’t sure how to address neither her guest, nor the purpose for the visit, but she continues to be kind.  “Will you need to use my kitchen?  You’re welcome to anything in here.”

Slightly tilting hooded head, to peer through the kitchen towards the breakfast nook where Ron hides out of sight, and then back to its central resting spot, the dark guest once again offers a slow, singular sweep of the head; a silent no.

Natalie isn’t sure if she should ask the next question, as she feels the answer has already been given in the two previous, but she asks anyway.  “Would you like me to show you to the room?”

A third singular, silent no, that hangs in the air like a hanged man’s noose.

Natalie internally shakes off the chill that has draped her angora warmed shoulders since the arrival of the dark figure to her cozy home.   Taking the sealed envelope Wade left for the shadowy guest, Natalie extends it with her final words.  “He left this for you.”

Raising its right arm, a slim moon pale finger and thumb creep from the depths of the silk lined sleeve and pinch the envelope, slowly curling and retracting back within the swallowing abyss.  Natalie hadn’t realized that she was nervously playing with her pea-sized pearl earring as she pondered if the finger she saw belonged to a man or a woman, and as she attempted to build a voice strong enough to ask her visitor for a name, the pearl earring, that Wade had gifted her on a candlelit Summer evening anniversary, slipped loose from her ear and to the floor, just a few feet from her phantom guest.  She quickly squats down low to retrieve it from the aged wood floor, and as she returns it to her earlobe, and angles her body to stand, she catches sight of the lower half of the cloaked guest’s profile; heavy shadows and ghostly bone.  Natalie is uncertain of what she has seen.  She wonders if it could be a trick of her eyes and mind, nevertheless, she stands and cautiously keeps her distance as the heavy cloaked visitor, with oversized carpet bag in hand, takes leave of the kitchen with a fox’s lightness of foot, towards the guest room on the other side of the single story cottage.

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Once in the guestroom, the dark visitor begins preparing for service.  Shutting the door, the milky white hand locks it and keeps the key in position to prevent curiosity from getting the best of the evening’s hosts.  The same pale hand shuts each of the plantation shutter s that adorn the three windows; neither a stream of moonlight, nor an unwanted eye can rest upon the room.

The hooded visitor stands before a six foot long, ebony stained dining table.  Pulling the sealed envelope from the cloak’s sleeve, the visitor’s pale hands rip it open, pulling out a single sheet of paper folded in half.  The small hands open the letter, and the visitor’s eyes read through a short, honest, handwritten list.

1. I lied about working late to have drinks with a married female friend.  We openly flirted and passionately kissed each other goodbye.
2. I had my last $5.00 on me and instead of donating it to kids collecting for cancer research I bought fast food.
3. I put earning a paycheck first more times than I should have.
4. I damned more than I should have praised.  I let my faith weaken rather than strengthen.
5. I asked for your services.
6. I asked for your services.
7. I asked for your services.

A smile slowly creeps across the visitor’s face, highlighting a starburst shaped scar on the right cheek, as the list is placed within the faded carpet bag, and several ivory pillar candles of varying melted heights are pulled out and placed around the room and along the outer edges of the dining table.  Using a long wooden matchstick, the visitor lights the candles, and then extinguishes the light from the lone lamp in the corner of the room.  The visitor crouches and produces from the bag a golden lipped glass goblet, a single porcelain teacup, and seven porcelain appetizer plates.   All the porcelain plates were special ordered for her line of work, each hand painted by delicate fingers, depicting an array of sinister flora; fennel, rue, columbine, hemlock, coltsfoot, birdsfoot trefoil, and foxglove.  Each item is placed on the hardwood floor before the visitor, whose next set of tasks require careful thought and patience.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Producing a small brown bag of figs from the carpet bag, the visitor warms each in the palms of its hands before placing them on a plate.  Making the sign of the fig, the dark guest speaks in a hushed voice.  “For always trusting your intuition, and to ward off the evil eye now and in the next life.”

A carton of cherries is then removed.  “You have always risen from the ashes magnificently; this time will not be unlike the rest.  You will be reborn in thoughts and hearts, your soul in new life.”

A large bunch of globe sized red grapes is pulled from the bag, suspended in the air by two pale fingers.  “A promise of new life and of great fortune when the time comes to pass.”

Another brown paper bag is removed, and the pale hand reaches within and scoops a helping of nuts and dried cranberries and currants in its palm, letting them slip through its fingers and down the hand, back into the bag.  “For what you receive, always remember to extend kindness to the giver, for whether intentional or not, you must have pleased the giver in some fashion, and your kindness will always be remembered.”  In a soft, saddened tone, the visitor repeats, “Always.”   

A wedge of cheese, a round loaf of fresh baked bread, and squares of dark chocolate are also taken from the antique bag.  The visitor hums a solemn Celtic tune as a small, sharp paring knife is produced, and the cutting and slicing of the food commences.  Once completed, the ghostly hands lay the seven different foods out on the seven sinister, round plates, each looking like a work of art directed by a dark artistic eye.  A bottle of red wine and a mason jar of black cherry tea are produced, and the hooded visitor fills the clouded glass goblet and the fragile tea cup, before meticulously setting each plate and vessel atop the dining table.

Standing back to take in the sight, the visitor slowly unbuttons the dark cloak, the spectral fair hands nearly glowing against the deep velvet.  Once open, the hooded cloak is released, falling heavy to the floor.  The candlelight glows against the slender, raven haired woman, half her face and half her nude body painted in shadows and light, depicting a living skeleton.  She raises her arms shoulder height and splays them wide, like outstretched wings, her palms turned up, as she sends a silent prayer to Wade’s soul and to his body, that rests before her…atop the ebony dining table…beneath her carefully crafted meal.  She walks to the head of the table, bending her head to kiss the naked man’s forehead.  “I chose wisely for you Wade.  By eating these foods I will cleanse your soul, and in return replace the negative energy that weighed you down in this life, with a positive energy to carry you through to the next.  I will bear the burden of your sins and it will be my responsibility, my duty to you, to dispose of them fittingly.”  The young, raven haired beauty positions herself at the dead man’s linen draped torso, where she proceeds to eat every one of Wade’s sins, each bite she washes down with the red wine or black cherry tea. 

Once the meal is finished, the young woman takes Wade’s list and lights it in the flame of a candle, dropping it within the now empty goblet, letting it burn until it is reduced to ash.  She bows her head and prays over the body one last time, concluding with a prayer spoken aloud, asking for his soul to be at peace.  Every dish, glass, bottle, and candle is carefully returned to the antique carpet bag.  The lone lamp in the room is emanating electric light again, and the dark, hooded cloak adorns the young woman’s body once more.  Each plantation shutter is reopened, and as she passes the body for the last time, she pulls a tight roll of money from her cloak, and places it in the palm of the upturned left hand, giving it a tight squeeze.  She whispers, “Your money’s no good with me.”  The guestroom is as it was; no trace of her visit is evident to the unknowing eye.  She unlocks the door and takes her leave from the room and the house without a single word to Natalie or the poorly hidden Ron.

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“Well that was fucking weird!” Ron can’t hide the humor tinged disbelief for what just occurred in Natalie’s home. 

“You were some help!  Just hiding out like that.  Thanks a lot.”  Natalie is less than pleased with Ron’s cowardice.  “I should check to make sure everything is in order in the room before calling the funeral home.”

Ron halfheartedly offers his assistance.  “Do you want me to stay with you until they get here?”

Natalie senses he’s desperate to leave, and she actually wants to be alone anyway, what with his less than supportive role this evening, so she politely refuses his offer with a simple, “No, thank you.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow; maybe we can meet for lunch.”

Lost in thought, Natalie simply answers, “That sounds lovely.”

She walks Ron to the door and swiftly kisses him goodnight on the cheek.  Upon his exit, she locks the door, leaning her back into it and sliding to the floor, hugging her knees tightly against her chest.  Natalie’s mind is haunted by thoughts.  In one night she saw Ron clearly, for who he is, and Wade, her beloved husband of twenty-four years, has become something of a mystery, in a singular visit from a chilling visitor.  She can no longer hold it together, so she weeps.  She weeps the adrenaline that rushed her body, she weeps the guilt of taking her marriage and Wade for granted, she weeps for the wrongs she can’t right, and she weeps for the lost she will never find…her adoring Wade never to sit across from her with an honest, loving smile.  She can’t quite pick herself up yet, she’s not ready to release Wade to the funeral home, where he will be reduced to ashes, never to walk the earth again, so she curls up on the floor and cries herself to sleep.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

 Ailis sits in her parked car, in the dark driveway of the home she shares with Ron.  She’s been sitting for nearly a half hour, thinking on her marriage, on Ron as a husband, a man, a human being, a soul.  It’s become common practice for her to do this after her shift ends; never quite ready to rush into the house.  Her thoughts are abruptly halted by a gut feeling that causes her to exit the car without hesitation.  She swiftly walks to the dark front porch, up the five autumn leaf cluttered steps, and to the shadow draped front door, where she leans over and vomits atop the newly purchased welcome mat.  Standing upright, she closes her eyes and exhales a deep hidden breath, while wiping her mouth with the back of her right hand.  She opens her eyes and brushes her long black hair from her face.  She pulls a pack of cigarettes from her bag, places one between her lips, and as she lights and inhales the spiced smoke, she smiles and laughs to the night; they share so many secrets and private jokes.  She finishes her smoke as she leisurely walks around to the back door, where she lets herself in, and washes her hands and rinses her mouth at the kitchen sink.  She opens the fridge and pulls out a plump lemon, biting into the cold rind and pulp, sucking the bursts of sour juice with a sweet smile.  She throws the exsanguinated fruit down the murky garbage disposal cavity and walks upstairs to the bathroom.  She turns on the shower and strips her body of her work attire, stepping into the tub, where she stands beneath the steamy water, letting it run through her hair and down her body, washing away the shadows and light of the night.  After her shower she steps quietly into the master bedroom, where she climbs into the hollow marriage bed she shares with her husband.  With her body positioned as far from Ron as possible, she shuts her eyes and lets the mattress cradle her naked form.    

With a sleep laced arrogance Ron asks, “How was your night at the body factory?”

A slow smile creeps across her face, illuminating the starburst scar on her right cheek, and in a peaceful voice Ailis answers, “Every man’s time comes.”     

E.A. O'Connell

Morning Glory

I like vines.  I always have.  I believe that maybe I identify with them.  I fill my gardens with many types of vines…pumpkins, hyacinth bean, nasturtiums, passion flowers, moonflowers, trumpet, honeysuckle, mandevilla, morning glories…because I like watching their curly tendrils grow; stretching, entwining in all directions, wild, strong and free.  I think I’m drawn to them like the beetles, bees, butterflies, and hummingbirds I see flirt with them.  I can’t ever know the brilliant blossoms as the soft and smooth, iridescent, humming-winged companions do, so I stand from afar and I admire all the colors, the shapes, and the music that awaken my green soul.  I know I’m in love with their resilience, holding tight to the summer sun’s warm embrace, even in autumn’s early frosted Dawn.  And I love when after a breaking winter, my eye’s behold a spring sprout, pushing up through the dirt, reacquainting itself with the friendly, faded fence that has been waiting months for its companion to return. 

I had a stubborn morning glory this season.  It was a late bloomer that refused to blossom, and when it finally did, I would get one blossom, every two or three days.  I refused to give up hope and I comfortably settled in my patience, but I also understood that sometimes you can’t force a reaction, no matter how much love tends to its needs.  So I backed off, watching, waiting from my kitchen window…every day sending it positive thoughts and hopes from my green heart…grow, strengthen, blossom, believe you can flourish even as the seasons change.  This morning…this frosted October morning…I walked to the kitchen window, as I do every morning, and I beheld stunning azure blossoms, unfurling and trumpeting to the Autumn blue sky, matching hue for hue, my eyes unsure where heavenly silken petal met heavenly silken sky.  There are several more spiral sealed buds that look like buttoned up umbrellas, just waiting for tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow…and perhaps each day I will carefully approach the vine, closer and closer with each new morning, until one day I can admire the beauty from up close, extending my small green hand to a triumphant blossom, and quietly introduce myself with a soft, rosy smile and a softly whispered, “Hello, old friend.”

E.A. O'Connell 

Witches Dwell

Witches dwell

In my up turned palms

Constellations sewn in threads from dark ribboned DNA

Birthed the Earth foundation of hands and fingers small and real

Bearing engraved spider webs and the prints their legs etched in the webbing

Spun tightly to my ever morphing palms

While residing in ripening womb

And hypnotic whorls that slither in the vellumous pulp

That know cold comfort in the grip of the dead

All who seek companionship and truths

On nights beyond reach of the All Hallows’ call

They know me as neighbor

And they bring me secrets from dual realms

Where phantoms dwell

E.A. O'Connell

In Nightmares I'm Nightmare

I’ll force my head through the conscious wall

Crowning like baby ripping from the womb

And on the other side will be the disembodied voices put to faces

Eyeless sockets and gaping wounds that fuck with my mind in such a way

That I’m not sure if I’ve broken through the gates of hell

Or just succumbed to my nightmares

And they’ll welcome me with their decomposed bodies

Embracing me against their rotted bones

And I’ll let them hold me and try furiously to know me

With hands that have no feeling

Sensation having deteriorated in death

But they frustrate easily and begin to tear at my flesh

To see what lives within

And if it could supplement

And when they’ve opened me and gutted me

And realize I stand taller without the encapsulating flesh

And I move swiftly without the weight of the internal bog

And that the resident within is an inimitable force of nature

That moves of her own currents in all elements

It’s their turn to stop and wonder if they’ve met the gates of hell

And to try with all their energy to catch me

To shake me awake from their nightmares

E.A. O'Connell

My Own Bully

My own bully

Fueled by and raging on insecurities and fears

Born in between each thought

A nasty little brute

That forces down

The painstakingly constructed

House of cards

Built with patience imprinted on feather light tips

The Fool leans into the Lovers a level surface for the Star

But that wicked little bastard lurks

And with one simple rap on the table

He sabotages the foundation

In a swift flutter of moth’s wings

Ace by queen by two by nine

Spades and clubs

And bleeding hearts

Reduced to a pile of 52 pickup

And over and over and over again

I…Repair …Rebuild…Revert to my masochistic ways

Without ever issuing an apology

E.A. O'Connell

Rosemary Sweet

Rosemary roots at the garden gate

Thick and wild

Woody scented needles

Look to faraway eyes like barbed weapons

Standing guard

Ready to wound any who cross the threshold

Spearing and splintering

But the docile guardian

With tall soft, oily sprigs

Simply begs to be pet

Affection and a sign of peace

By a welcome hand extended

Brushing fingers through the fragrant stems

That infuse the skin evergreen

Hours rich with the lingering perfume

Of remembrance

E.A. O'Connell