A Hiccup in Time
Suzanne O'Connell

September 3, 2015


I heard it on the radio yesterday.
Scientists have discovered a hole in time,
filled with nature’s hair and empty bottles.
I tried to follow along.
I imagined walking down a smooth street
and tripping on a lip of concrete—
(the scientists call this lip the event horizon).
Beneath this lip,
a black-mouthed sinkhole opens up—
blacker than the death of a dog.
The hole is infinite but the size of a pinprick—
expansive enough to contain a thousand black suns.
On the other side of the hole,
the sidewalk smooths again.
Everything that falls into this hole disappears
into its mysterious depth:
baby shoes,
love letters,
arguments,
fold in on themselves—
scramble,
and become random particles
never to reemerge.

The story made me feel very small.
Smaller than when I look up at the moon.
I realize I am a mere adhesion
on a thin tissue of time.
I am a postage stamp
on the missing envelope.
I am a floater,
a small pair of wings that forgot how to fly.
I am a cluster of pink buds falling
into a gap of my humility.


Suzanne O’Connell lives in Los Angeles where she is a poet and a clinical social worker. Her work can be found in Forge, Atlanta Review, G.W. Review, Reed Magazine, Permafrost, Mas Tequila Review, The Round, The Griffin, Sanskrit, Foliate Oak, Talking River, Organs of Vision and Speech Literary Magazine, Willow Review, The Tower Journal, Thin Air Magazine, The Evansville Review, Serving House Journal, Schuylkill Valley Journal, and Licking River Review. She was a recipient of Willow Review’s annual award for 2014 for the poem Purple Summers. She is a member of Jack Grapes’ L.A. Poets and Writers Collective.

What motivates her to create:
“I write to communicate. It is a conversation first with myself and then hopefully with others. In my career as a therapist, I mostly listen, so this poetry-type of conversation is new and liberating.”