SUZANNE O’CONNELL

SUMMER JUICE

Remember the time I waded out,
burning thighs,
into the cool water?
Fish leapt into my birthday air.
The sand cradled my long feet
and took my vital signs.
Remember the time I ran
ahead of my face into the sea?
I wanted to fly like a fish.
I wanted my shadow to flash green
against the water.
Remember the time my mouth was drowsy?
I wanted to close my eyes in the heat.
My eyes were heavy with dreams.
I wanted to eclipse the sun
with my own skin,
my own skin,
covered with a million burning flowers.

MOUTHFUL OF BRINE

Water is my friend.
The ocean in particular,
though submerged in the tub,
nose sticking up, is good too.
I ignored the nuns
who said bad sinners like me
would burn in a lake of fire.

It was August, on the bluff,
north of the statue of St. Monica
where my cousin buried Wizard the Lizard.
I climbed over the concrete wall,
past the Danger Keep Out signs.
I inched down the crumbling cliff,
prone to landslides,
barefoot, soles like leather.

At the bottom,
I ran across Pacific Coast Highway
to my beloved ocean.
It smelled like a lover’s skin,
umami salt mixed with sun.
My feet made smoke in the sand,
to the shore,
to the wetness,
to the waves that reached for me.

When lost, I look to find myself in water.
My body can swim in cold darkness
ignoring the undertow of regret.

Bio: I am an entry level human.