A Poem by Donal Mahoney

From the Dead Sea
of a bad marriage
a phoenix rises–
children who somehow
thrived and married
and now have children
as beautiful as they were
years ago when they
played in the park
on see-saws and swings
and made their parents
occasionally happy.

At summer reunions they try
to unspool the mystery
of why their parents
fought all day
yet stopped at night
and gave life to them.
They gather today
in the same park
and applaud their children
who smile and laugh
on see-saws and swings
once theirs alone.

A Poem by Donal Mahoney

Stunned by July in a hammock
he remembers the apricot wife
no longer here
one curler more and the flutter
of leaves in the orchard
the sound of trees
letting go
a downpour of plums
flowing over
the wicker
propped open
below

A Poem by Donal Mahoney

white hips a soft fist
for the wrist of your waist
black hair in a spill

on your shoulders
small whirlpools
your ankles

green streams ride
your calves
blue rivers your thighs

I finger the flute
on the back of your neck
rise and slip in

at that moment dawn
and new
life begins

A Poem by Donal Mahoney

Tomorrow morning when I wake
it’ll be the nurse who’s crazy.
I’ll heave my body up
on its elbows and yell
in her ear, “It’s time for your pill.
Get dressed. Breakfast is ready

in the Day Room. Juice, rolls, bacon, eggs.
You’ll find a tray with your name on it,
faces you know, a chance for conversation.
Eat each meal at a different table.
Mingle. Before you can get out of here,
you have to love all the faces you hate.”

A Poem by Donal Mahoney

“On the window sill
the sun’s pure gold today.
Usually it’s white,”
says drooling Nell,
in her hospital smock,

her tea turning cold
as she braids
ram horns of hair
high and tight

to the sides of her skull.
“On gold days
like this, I warm
my hands for hours
on this sill.

“Yesterday, the doctor said
someone should paint me,
the fool. A still life,
that’s what he said.”

A Poem by Donal Mahoney

High noon this winter day
and blackbirds fill
the bare branches

of my dead neighbor’s tree.
Max would have loved these birds;
they’re as raucous as he was,

bobbing and clucking
as if they’re debating
where to fly next.

Suddenly they know
and shoot from the tree.
They’re gone but I shout

“Godspeed!” anyway
in behalf of old Max,
immigrant from Auschwitz.

He may be dead but
the numbers on his forearm
glow in my dreams.

A Poem by Donal Mahoney

this belle like a feather
floats table to table
bearing menus and water,

stunning this Yankee
in Memphis on business
whose host swears the South

has many more like her.
Up North, the Yank says,
young ladies like her bump tables,

slop coffee in saucers.
No wonder this Yankee
in Memphis on business

smiles when again
this belle like a feather
floats table to table

bearing menus and water
as if she were certain
the earth isn’t there

and the sky and the air
are highway enough for a belle
bearing menus and water.

A Poem by Donal Mahoney

One kind of pigeon,
one kind of snake,
as far as I know,
puff up, inflate.
There’s the bullfrog,
of course, and
peacocks have tails
so I tell my wife
what she already knows:
Once I become
whoever I am
then will
I love you.

A Poem by Donal Mahoney

Down the patio walk,
under the trellis toward me
yellow frock, yellow hair
rising and falling

I lie in my lawn chair,
spoon honeydew sherbet, sip
pink ade from a tall glass,
cubes circling

She is almost upon me
I look up and I tell her
I have sand, sea, skies, laughs,
all paid for and nothing
nothing at all to do.

A Poem by Donal Mahoney

The kitchens of Auschwitz
are belching again.

Ancient chefs,
puffed hats askew,

storm once more
the catwalks swaying.

When the ovens are full,
the chefs dig pits

in the kitchen floor, set
silver spits, roast fryer thin

the legs and wings they’ve
cleaned and cleavered. Yes,

the kitchens of Auschwitz
are belching again.