Connor Donovan | Poems

We Accept the Bad

as separate from the ugly
so we can believe
the bad won’t breed into sin itself.
We scrape the mold
from our mostly okay fruit.
Our retainers keep
our crooked teeth from becoming fish-like.
There are roaches
in the cupboards but they want nothing
at all to do with our skin.
We never blame it on our poor
hypotheses, but rather
we gather more & more evidence
to our contrary.
When we say it never ceases
to amaze me, rarely
are we thankful for our amazement.
We call our mothers
to tell them of the unpaid parking tickets.
Our mothers tell us
of their pre-pregnancy bodies
they’ll never wear again.
Indeed, we want to share. We even need
help holding the cup.
Because we know the cup half empty
holds infinitely more
than the one that runs dry.

The Fall After the Summer I Spent Mowing Lawns

The Art of Concealment

Boys learn well
before they’re grown
how to hide
what they shouldn’t have
but they’re bound to have.
Maybe their gods
teach them, maybe
they’re their own god.
Maybe it’s their first
alcohol, stolen cigarettes
they keep next to the expired
condoms they’re not old enough
to know expire,
beneath the mound of little
league trophies,
elementary school yearbooks
at the back of their closet.
It’s not particularly out of want,
but more a first responsibility.
An heirloom to keep safe.
Maybe it’s their first
girlfriend, a split custody brat.
Maybe it’s the look
they want to give
their parents when they ask
them if they have time
to spend time
but their parents are doing
adult tasks like taxes or moping.
For me it was the first
couple sadnesses.
I became so good
at hiding they went
from being kept
in my room
to in my liquor
to eventually just on
my person. It became
such a skill
that my body
is littered in their lips.
Small incisions
not a soul has ever seen.

Evaluation of a Friend