Donal Mahoney

Someone to Talk to


Two evenings a week
I go to Melissa’s,
to talk and to fuck.


We talk first,
we fuck later.
Summer, fall,


winter, spring,
nothing distracts us.
We are to each other now


what we were at the start:
someone to talk to,
someone to fuck.


Tornadoes in the Parlor


Tornadoes in the parlor,
in the kitchen, in the bathroom, too,
churned every hour that Pa was home.
Sis could tell you more because
she'd help Ma board up the house
when I'd walk out the door
and ride my bike around the block.
If you find Sis today,
she’ll tell you funnels
tore the basement, too.
So what, you say?
Well, Dad’s been dead
for seven years and I know
Sis is somewhere.
She needs to know
good weather here
is still a squall.



Two Mutes in the Press Room


The two mutes we hired
to wheel hot type
are bickering again


Their fingers
quicker than beaks of cocks
tear the air

with perfect curses
tongues never utter
ears never hear

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donalmahoney@charter.net


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. He has had poems published in or accepted by The Wisconsin Review, The Kansas Quarterly, The South Carolina Review, The Beloit Poetry Journal, Commonweal, Public Republic (Bulgaria), Revival (Ireland), The Istanbul Literary Review (Turkey), Rusty Truck, Deuce Coupe, Opium Poetry 2.0, Asphodel Madness, Calliope Nerve, The Beatnik (U.K.), Pirene's Fountain (Australia) and other publications.