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Suzanne O’Connell

Night Disease

I tap my phone.
Greenish light haloes my hand.
The clock reads 2:30.
I shake out my boots, no spiders. 
I go into the yard.  
It’s a slow-motion night.
No stars, no breeze.
My nightgown sticks to my skin.
The moon pushes against the clouds,
trying to be seen.
The air feels like soup, 
cooked slow in an enclosed kitchen.
If he was here, I would say 
“What a night!”
Instead I go back inside, 
open the tap,
drink a glass of water.
I hold the phone, hoping for a buzz or a ding,
hoping for a call, 
hoping for a chance to say
“I really messed up.”
Rain begins to tap on the roof.
Then it knocks.
Then it hammers.
“What a night,” 
I say out loud to no one.

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