Nostradamus knows the stars, too, get ill. He asks, how
many jackals congregated in the parking lot during your
birth? I live because Death knows if she takes me, it will
super my nova & she wants to savor its once. Like a
common lover, she pretends to let me walk away. He asks, if
you sucked all the blessing out of the baptismal water, how
many babies did you condemn to purgatory? Today, each of
my entrances rouses goosebumps, constellations
un-perfecting your skin. To map a planetary distance is to
convert a million miles into a yawning centimeter; we
couldn’t be together, because I couldn’t wait for you to
change. He asks, did taking Saint Francis’s name strip his
consecration? Today, my childhood is a constellation in that I
know a few things & make up the rest. Without a telescope,
it’s mostly so-called darkness. Read: first-grade journal
entry—Neighbor boy threatens to baseball bat my mom.
Read: my palm—supernova by suicide or medication? I
chose this lipstick for its bullseye.
Nicole Connolly lives and works in Orange County, CA, which she promises is mostly unlike what you see on TV. She received her MFA from Bowling Green State University, and her work has appeared, or is forthcoming, in such journals as Pretty Owl Poetry, Flyway, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, and Big Lucks. She currently serves as Managing Editor for the poetry-centric Black Napkin Press.