Herb tea

each afternoon
we set out our herbs 
on their rack
to a spot they could finger
some sunlight. 
we thought ahead; 

propped open the door
with a painted blue chair 
from the balcony. smells entered;
air softened, like water in cups
of herb tea. and sometimes 
it was herbs, but hops 
blew more often,
roasting like biscuits
in fumes rising out
of the guinness factory,

set up across 
the way on the river,
which was really quite 
nearby. 
 
Where I am

inside; I’m a cell
passing protein. 
my window a frame
on a bright
concrete yard. 
yellow leaves climbing
the wall and distress marks,
broken through brick,
the bones of a long- 
rotten pigeon coop. I own
one small fridge,
and a storage heater 
and a painting 
done in orange 
of a tall city 
landscape; dublin,
overlooking the quays.
picked up for 70 euros
in a shop on camden st
when I was last working. my teapot, 
brown as old blood
and my books
are all thumbed for the first half 
and forgotten. I 
am a torn-up chip bag,
lying on the road,
looking at lights 
in the ceiling.
 
My defence.

if I remember correctly,
in our two years together,
it was the first time 
you’d learned 
that I’d cheated. 

but, in defence
of my defence:
at that point
we'd lived
different cities
for 8 months 
and going longer.

in the morning
I called you,
broken as an angry 
drunk's wineglass
and hungover
as a drunkard
as well. I got up – I went 
to the city. took a train
and wandered london
like a bottle
on a brutal 
sea.

people 
were everywhere.
 
Water ingress.

there were storms
blowing east
from late sat
until afternoon
sunday. now the ceiling
of the entrance
to the branch
over Patrick St,
circles of stain
like a burned
dirty stove-top – 
and leaks 
getting through
in two places
at least. above
the main entrance
it's pooled
on the flatroof, 
and through
some electrical
conduits. taking calls
monday morning
I organise contractors, 
issue blanket POs
for supplies and a P1 
priority. the news
of the closure
and all the redundancies
were made public there
only last friday. customers
pretty soon coming to check
on their money. this sends 
the completely wrong 
message, I'm told. 
 
We'd planned on the beach

we'd planned 
on the beach
for an evening
but in absence
some wind 
had kicked up.

we sat in the car
in the wide
empty carpark,
drinking cold
tea from thermos,
and sandwiches meant 
for the sand. the dog 
was quite anxious – 
had detected, I guess
the piss of dead fish
on the tideline. 

I took her a minute,
hoping wind 
would discourage
enthusiasm – 
sand in my eyes
and the leash
in my fist
under pressure – 

the atlantic a doorbell
and crouched 
behind dune-piles,
pretending that no-one
was home. 
.

DS Maolalai has been nominated nine times for Best of the Net and seven times for the Pushcart Prize. He has released two collections, “Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden” (Encircle Press, 2016) and “Sad Havoc Among the Birds” (Turas Press, 2019). His third collection, “Noble Rot” is scheduled for release in April 2022.