Organic

in the red bowls we eat
from, all food
tastes natural
as if it were made
by people on farms
out in Italy or somewhere
where there still is real dirt
and the dirty real
fingernails. you come
to the sofa, you are bringing
two bowls – the kind
that they use to sell
pasta in supermarkets.
they are both oven-ready –
safe also in microwaves.
I put them on my lap,
put them off, look for something
to put them on.

 

July 5th

a thick summer rainstorm
on a highway is rare and delightful.
I’m driving for work – heading south
on the ring toward Dun Laoghaire.

it’s 9:30am and the sun in the water
which is thrown up by each passing car
splits its light, fills the world
with small rainbows – the pouring
of coins. they arch like electricity
from a badly earthed cable box
in the basement of an aging
apartment block, over a breached
leaking pump. I’m going to review

such a building this morning – meeting a contractor
to discuss costs of temporary repair. the M50 arcs
around Dublin as well like a rainbow
in a headlight in thunder. I’m passing the exits
to Sandyford and Portmarnock, a bank
on my right of shale scrambling
through thick summer growth
and behind them a sometimes used field

wastes the rainfall replenishing weeds. the road
is reflective and the car full of classical
piano. I’m singing the fur elise counterpoint
badly along – it fights through radio
static electricity, humming as if the rain were falling
on the opened up top of the instrument.
muting the music’s percussion. warping the stretch
of the strings.

 

Rarity value

there’s something striking,
walking at night,
in the moment a woman
makes eye-contact.

rarity value. like orchids.

most are too sensible
to look
at any stranger.
especially on the weekend.

fucking cop on,
you moron. you think
that somehow
this is healthy?
stop all this
staring at people
like a goddamn wilting
plant.

 

Collisions

the stop and start rhythm of moving in traffic
at rush hour from Baldonnell into the city. it’s 5:10pm.
there may have been an accident
or else just the snarl up of motors accordioning
together at the breach of the junction.
the median is full of fat wildflowers
fed by exhaust fumes – white specks
on brambles, the thickly blue
trumpet of thistles. I’m giving a lift
to victoria who doesn’t drive. she looks
at her phone as I switch my gaze off
between growth and the red-petalled brake-lights.
at one point my fingertips brush off her knee
as I knuckle the gearshift to first. she doesn’t
say anything or shift in her seat so you’d notice
but it’s not there the next time we move.

 

Freud

calling my wife
by my sister’s name;
pausing, wondering
if she noticed. I called
my wife once
by my mother’s name;
that time she can’t
let it slide. I feel
a real fool, but come on –
she’s the first girl I’ve lived with
to whom I wasn’t related by blood.
I give her that reason
and hope she believes it. hope
I believe it
myself.

 

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  • DS Maolalai has been described by one editor as “a cosmopolitan poet” and another as “prolific, bordering on incontinent”. His work has nominated twelve times for Best of the Net, ten for the Pushcart and once for the Forward Prize, and has been released in three collections; “Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden” (Encircle Press, 2016), “Sad Havoc Among the Birds” (Turas Press, 2019) and “Noble Rot” (Turas Press, 2022)