asked, splutters, then
gasps, hacks, his
hand, index finger
held up, a moment,
it says, for he can’t
catch his breath, is
bent over, shoulders,
head, neck jerking
with the effort, fist
at his mouth as if
yanking a fishing line,
its hook sunk deep
in a branch of his
wet lungs, his eyes
shut tight against
the pain of it, panicked,
the desperate straw
of his throat sucking
at dregs, at what
there is, there is, yes,
breath, another, all
over, it’s over, and
knowing this, he sighs,
asks what was it again
that was on my mind.
David O’Connell’s work has appeared in The Cincinnati Review, New Ohio Review, Copper Nickel, Sugar House, and North American Review, among other journals. His first full-length collection, Our Best Defense, is forthcoming from Červená Barva Press.
