by Kevin O’Connor

The farmer had grown black oranges,
some with faces,

others with horns,
but all were bathed in light.

The clouds overhead his field
raced contrapuntally.

Spiked stars gleamed
in glass jars stacked on a pallet.

Inside: a jackal
and a fluorescent cougar

rimmed with sequin.
On another plane a daffodil

and a pool of amber
dripping from a golden faucet,

each letter of “forever”
scrawled by a hand impeded

by amphetamine.
At the bottom a sketch

of a woman with rats in her hair.
Reaching into the crate

the farmer
bit one of the shadowed globes,

and his teeth flew from his mouth,
and wings appeared on his heart

fluttering as if by magic
or design.


Kevin O’Connor received his MFA from Old Dominion University and his BA from Johns Hopkins University. He has published poetry in Slant, The Tulane Review, The Pinch, Visions International, Glassworks, The Bakery, The Fourth River Review, and Bayou, among other journals.

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