Nicole Connolly


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.