Poetry from D.S. Maolalai

The river people.

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.

Turkey soup.

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.

The proposal.

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)