bodies
like a dried up orange peel.
bodies like breadcrumbs
on benches for pigeons.
it’s summer – they really do
look good. relaxed,
they hang about
next to the river. they
have nowhere
to be.
you could be jealous.
you could be.
walking in shoes
which dig at your ankles
and a new shirt
and a lanyard. bodies
like full crisp packets.
bodies
like empty beer bottles.
People in old situations
by 11, of course,
we were all a little drunk,
but they were
not as drunk as I was. impatient
with the favour of their company,
they rolled their eyes and frowned at me
while I yelled things to the table in enthusiasm,
like a precocious stupid child
allowed up past bedtime. this
was our reunion in winter –
a tradition every year
of friends flown home through christmas
to meet at a bar again,
and slipping very quickly
back to our old situations;
fallon the sharp didactic, baker clever,
gerry stupid and loud
and aodhain’s barks so passionate
they made dull subjects interesting.
and of course, I lost my cool,
silly as a kitten
misjudging its footsteps. giggly
and very embarrassing.
long-dormant insecurities, blunt attempts
at wit, a kid on a doorstep
holding cheap flowers
accepted from politeness by a girl.
all joy – it was spectacular.
I threw out my arms
like a diver, and flopped
so perfectly backwards.
when we’re done eating
my father gathers up bones.
each year
for one day
he developes an interest
in cookery. he knows
how to make
turkey soup
and takes pride in it.
his use of leftovers,
every part of the buffalo.
my mother watches.
we all watch.
he lowers the carcass
to the pot and adds water, gentle
as a priest
acting baptism. we’ve eaten
our fill, but nothing
must be wasted, he explains
as he scrapes down
some grease
from the plate
and fiddles about
with the tinfoil. if he could
he’d take gristle
from the sideboard, the knucklebones
out of our hands. we are sitting,
still in the hot fug
of appetite, a winish haze
and dogs
under the table, snapping for scraps
and frightened by the crackle
of christmas crackers.
he does it all
and then comes back to us,
sits down. it will simmer
overnight
and boil for days on end. the flavour
lasting weeks
going january
sour.
The basket.
a supermarket; light
in an antiseptic style.
salted redness
gleaming on apples
and tins of tuna. restless,
I open egg cartons;
inspect them for cracks
and make sure that none
have been stolen.
someone pushes a mop
on a spilled stain
of ketchup. teenagers
look nervous
and buy the cheapest wine.
someone goes by
with a basket of groceries.
the doors slide open;
they welcome the evening in.
we drink together
in her tired
and line-eyed apartment.
the housemate is away
and the light
all white on walls
the colour of paint
done cheap by the landlord
and only to photograph
better in listings.
the curtains
are grubby.
I push them aside. the sofa
collapses
like a man without exercise,
sagging at the guts
and the thin bone of armrests.
I look out her window
and take another sip,
ask quietly “how long
do you really want
to live here?”
in my pocket
the wire on a spare key glitters
with nervous hope
and the optimism of an unworn
engagement ring.
DS Maolalai 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)