Donal Mahoney: Four Poems

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Love Is Another Thing


Sitting at the table
spinning the creamer
running her fingers through sugar
the kids spilled at supper, Sue

suddenly says, “Don,
love is another thing.”
Since love is another thing
I have to go rent a room,

leave behind eight years,
five kids, the echoes of me
raging at noon on the phone,
raging at night, the mist

of whose fallout ate her skin,
ate her bones, left her a kitten
crying high in an oak
let me free, let me free

Spider

Warm, wet, wrapped
in each other’s
arms, legs

still for a moment,
we rest

a spider spent,
lost in its web


Bending, Grabbing, Sorting

Chinese Laundry, Chicago

In a storefront laundry
on North Clark Street
brown draperies release
this quiet man

who has my shirts.
He smiles and bows--
how carefully
he wraps them.

Before the draperies
fall back, I see,
for a moment,
in a circle swirling

almost out of sight
three kerchiefed women,
glistening black,
bending, grabbing, sorting.

Those Poems, That Fire

I stood in the alley, still
in pajamas, somebody’s shoes,
another man’s coat, my eyes
on the bronc of the hoses.
Squawed in the blankets of neighbors,
my wife and three children sipped
chocolate, stood orange and still.
Of the hundred or more I had stored
in a drawer, I could remember,
comma for comma, no more than four,
none of them final,
all of them fetal.


Donal Mahoney, a native of Chicago, lives in St. Louis, Missouri. He has worked as an editor for The Chicago Sun-Times, Loyola University Press and Washington University in St. Louis. A Pushcart nominee, he has had poems published by The Wisconsin Review, The Kansas Quarterly, The South Carolina Review, The Beloit Poetry Journal, Commonweal, Public Republic (Bulgaria), The Beanik (U.K), Revival (Ireland), The Istanbul Literary Review (Turkey), The Osprey Journal (Scotland), Pirene's Fountain (Australia) and other publications

Peter D. Marra

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Flesh


Needle
rain.

Cars
pavement
skin
roll around her brain

And the blood speeds

crash veins.

She is laughing
Looks at her fingers and sees what she’s done.

The heads are moving.

Clang. The heads are moving.
Walking along the beach she laughs.

As she walks
down the beach,

Needle rain and salt stinging.

Slowly walks in
smells the
salt
taste

The heads are moving

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Room

Lonely bed stained and
Sheets electric
Soft pain and fluid leaking from the walls

Silent crusty eyes
gazing down
and riding away

White fluid on
the walls
and red streaks

in the air clinging
to the purple darkness

Knife stab bed it’s gone

The mouths shoot anemia.

take away the forgiven
watching for their return.

Knives tinged
Shoot red and wait

The chains broken
into molten
things and

thoughts.
images
to follow soon

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Peter Marra is a 51 year old writer living in Williamsburg Brooklyn who supports himself by trying to do computer-related work while trying to write, make music and create art. He is a fan of “Beyond the Valley of the Dolls,” general grindhouse fare, and art films. He has been published in amphibi.us, Yes,Poetry, Maintenant 4, Beatnik, Crash, and Danse Macabre and is working on his first collection of poems.

Peter D. Marra

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hiroshima


She
stares
at
the shadows

permanently
etched
in the sidewalk.

Blood and pebbles
laugh back at her.

embedded in the
black light glow.

the figurine smiles back at her;

Memories of where she went wrong:
Where
she
did
wrong and
When she did pain.

And she likes it –
the slight
spine-chill

Dark
eye
circles
and

the savory destruction.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


dr. schnooks

dr.
schnooks
the
cherub
tidbit

she writhes
in laughter and

writhes in agony
sitting in the antechoir

laughing
at
the
pious

dr.
schnooks
straightens
her
red
corset

and black stockings
the kind
with the seam up the back leg.

‘40’s

it doesn’t feel good anymore

the skin slips off
the darkness
comes.
out.

the body revealed

the skull and the bones

lie down in the arms of a mother

and try to get home
lie down in the arms and try to get home
to lick away the marble tears.