Pretending to Sleep on a Sunday

A thought is not a home.
It can’t hold a shovel.

Morning rises dripping
from that slow-ripple sky

some big-boned sun shoulders
through, salt-hardened

& hollering amber.

I learn to shoot.

Learn to lady.

Lay bodies down like honeycomb;
Stomach an empty house & say born to it.

I think trees
see people as meat thickets
uselessly mobile,

see gnats gnawing
at our lightness
as we huddle under heat.

Wraith rooms like fingerprints
stuck to tin

can’t recall skin or
the hungry landscape of bone

so we bung ‘em,
quiet bruises,

& dad drifts out back
throwing cream pies like cities.

Bevin O’Connor is a writer and performer from California. She received her BA in English from Hobart and William Smith Colleges with honors for her work in poetry and a minor in Theatre. In her spare time she coaches gymnastics and avoids playing croquet.