DS Maolalaí has been nominated four times for Best of the Net and three times for the Pushcart Prize. His poetry has been released in two collections, “Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden” (Encircle Press, 2016) and “Sad Havoc Among the Birds” (Turas Press, 2019).
Juice.
to die
with an apple
in apple season
is to die
with a pleasure
which cannot
be taken away,
no matter the status
of the mind
or the body. biting in
and breaking skin
like claws
in your girlfriend’s
neck – tasting
sweetness
and inhaling
to be rewarded
with more sweetness. that
is pure
pleasure. flavour
done to the taste. flowers
bright in summer
as applejuice. crab-colour
crawling
on dry sand. if must I die
let me die
eating apples
and bury me soggy
deep in wet earth
surrounded
by bursting fruit.
~
The cheap wristwatch.
the clasp
had been broken
and it slipped off my wrist
like a knickerleg
gone over a lady’s knee,
easy, with assistance
from the limb.
but when it hit the floor
the face still shattered
red and spat
teeth.
it was only
a cheap wristwatch –
10 euros from a street-trader,
and I spent more than that
replacing the glass
and then another 10
on a new strap
in light brown leather
to match my favourite jacket.
I liked it – the back
was transparent
and showed the workings
and having to wind it by hand
each morning
I felt lent me a little of that
old-world
stink
which I enjoy so much,
but without flaring it
off at other people,
like those guys who write
on typewriters in coffee-shops
or smoke pipes,
such pricks
for a skinny whistle.
~
An overgrown potato
and the garden is rough
and a warted scab of brown. the last tenants
apparently
had been trying to grow potatoes.
and you grow them too, have grown them
before, and perhaps this is why
you don’t see
the problem. and the rooms inside
are less ugly than that
but still awkward
in their obvious absence of furniture.
like opening the bathroom door
and seeing someone step out
from the shower.
or the watery flavour
of an overgrown potato
put down by an inexperienced gardener.
just walls and floors,
fixtures and nothing impermanent. you step in,
show us around, lecture on images
you vaguely imagine. yes friend, I’m sure
it will one day be wonderful, but I see nothing
but scabs
and walls.