The Old Packard
Maybe she’s dead, I thought.
The old Packard was parked at the beach,
green with curvy hips,
a silver starter button on the dash.
At five, I had already considered
pushing that button and driving away.
Mother wore a halter top and loose shorts.
A red bandana held back her shiny hair.
“Suck in your stomach,” she told me.
“Do you see other girls
with their stomachs hanging out?”
As she reached into the trunk,
the lid slammed on her slender neck.
Dad ran to her. “Ruthie, Ruthie!”
That trunk was really heavy.
Later in life, I had two ways
of explaining her erratic behavior.
The devil part said
an untreated mental disorder
she could have done something to fix.
The angel part said
it was because of the freak accident,
nerve damage, and trauma.
I blamed the Packard.
As an adult in therapy,
I remembered
she was mean and erratic
before the accident.
I forgave the Packard.
But never her.
Willem de Kooning, Police Gazette, 1955
Apparently some guys
aren’t satisfied with just one penis.
Don’t get me wrong.
I’m not like the joke where a psychiatrist
gives an inkblot test and the patient says:
“Why are you showing me all these dirty pictures?”
I’m not like that.
My art history teacher, Mr. Crabtree,
assigned this painting to us.
He said write.
About what?
All the red, blue, white, orange, and black penises
lying on a yellow tablecloth?
Maybe Mr. Crabtree is a sicko.
I don’t get the point.
Is it supposed to be an anatomy lab?
Porn?
Hannibal Lecter’s workroom?
At the top of the painting is an orange face
with a pig nose looking down on everything.
I think Mr. de Kooning, if he’s still alive,
is the one who needs a psychiatrist.
Or maybe he’s in jail, which is why he named
the painting the Police Gazette.
As for me, I just don’t get it.
I did learn something though.
Math is where I need to be.
Not art.
How To Deal With An Intruder
The sound woke me up.
Thump drag, thump drag, thump drag.
It was coming from the attic.
Maybe a feral cat, I thought.
But if so, it was a really big cat.
I got the ladder, climbed barefoot,
opened the crawl space.
In the darkness, I saw an old lady,
shuffling with the help of a walker.
She was bent over, looking at her big slippers.
She wore a stretched cardigan.
Her gray hair was greasy.
“You can’t be here,” I said.
“It’s too soon.
You have to get out!”
The leaves on the magnolia tree are rusty.
Soon they will fall;
the rain will soak them.
In spring, green knobs
of new growth will appear,
then dazzling pink flowers.
I want to be like the tree.
I want a hundred new haircuts,
a thousand midnights,
a few thousand chicken dinners,
a bonus round,
many more days of love.
Tineola Bisselliella: Common Laundry Moth
Maybe you rode in on my jacket,
running from something
or toward my chosen bathroom.
You were in a homely coat of gray when I found you,
wings spread on the tile floor.
I poked you with a toilet paper wrapper.
Nothing.
Were you traveling alone?
Far from home?
I picked you up in the paper,
figured you should decompose
in your own habitat.
As I carried you to the door,
one thread-like leg moved.
I put you on the landing,
hoping familiar smells would revive you.
I know this poem is about you, my brother, not me.
But may I say,
saving you was a selfish act.
I believe that at Heaven’s Door
there will be a tally of our rescues:
Dogs, cats, people and bugs
(or if you prefer, insects.)
I’m happy to add you to my account,
as when I left this morning,
you had flown away.
Suzanne O’Connell’s recently published work can be found in North American Review, Poet Lore, The Menacing Hedge, Steam Ticket, American Chordata, Typishly, and Forge. O’Connell was nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize and received Honorable Mention in the Steve Kowit Poetry Prize, 2019. Her two poetry collections, A Prayer For Torn Stockings and What Luck were published by Garden Oak Press.
