The Last Honeydew
On the way home from work
I buy the last honeydew
in the window at Meyers.
Tonight the wife
will cut it in half
and with elbow bent
scoop the pulp
like ice cream
from its golden shell.
She will savor its juices
as I do the cherries
on the sundaes of her breasts.
poem by Donal Mahoney
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Getting Older
He's getting older
but has a life,
checks his emails,
loves his wife,
likes to know
what she's wearing
underneath.
Might be pink,
might be white.
Nothing wrong
with either.
But if it's red
or if it's black,
he knows
he better
take a nap.
He'll be up
late tonight.
poem by Donal Mahoney
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Wilson and Broadway at 4 a.m.
Chicago
Sunday evening. Drunk
and strolling home.
On the way an hour now,
block after block,
bar to bar.
Weekend's gone,
Monday's turning.
Along the way
his swollen fingers find
parking meter posts
are an endless xylophone.
Plunked, they play
[...] Read more
poem by Donal Mahoney
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Savor Truth
Part readily the skin
and readily the pulp
and readily the tongues
wild apples bore,
eviscerate the cores
and watermelon spit
the pits they
cannot swallow.
Do this before
you let the tongues
wild lemons bore
find no cores
and you will
savor truth
[...] Read more
poem by Donal Mahoney
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Dropping the Paisley
What more can I say?
This beautiful woman
lived in my house
and now she is gone,
sailing or flying,
swimming or walking.
I don't know where.
So please,
tell the woman
I live with now
it's time again
to dropp the paisley
over the parakeet.
I'll be upstairs,
tell her,
getting ready for bed.
poem by Donal Mahoney
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Film Noir
They had to operate
remove the one
and from the other
take a nugget.
Later in the hall
they said they got it all.
They said how well
she'd be with rest.
Her first night home,
as we prepared for bed,
she turned to show me.
In my mind the cinema of fleet
but fecund years
ran through another time.
poem by Donal Mahoney
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A Southern Girl's, Uncoiling
Whenever I mention you,
the doctor always asks
what do I see,
now that you're gone,
when I think of you.
I say I see thighs,
tanned and gleaming,
kissed by the proper
Bonwit skirt, rising
through the terminal
toward me and above
your thighs
that smile,
a Southern girl's,
uncoiling.
poem by Donal Mahoney
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Coal Bins
Chicago, the South Side,
long before Barack Obama
those I'd love see live
anywhere they like
are those so black
they up long planks
in the heat of summer
wheelbarrow coal
so bright it pours
in a silver seiche
down chutes
through windows
of bungalow basements
crashing in coal bins
of new masters
poem by Donal Mahoney
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Night Lit Bright Their Signal
Formerly, one knew on sight the ones
who walked with economic purpose.
One had criteria: the color
of their robes, the meter
of their stroll, the semaphore of their
cosmetic blare.
One knew that night for them was dawn,
that night lit bright their signal.
Today, my pastor claims,
one must inquire of them all.
poem by Donal Mahoney
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An Eighth of a Lemon
For Martha in the early years
life was recess, nothing more.
She knelt on asphalt,
quartered oranges for kittens
who never lost stringed mittens,
whose London Bridges
never fell down.
For Martha now,
life's Parkview Manor
where a woman in white,
three times a day, bleeds
an eighth of a lemon into her tea.
poem by Donal Mahoney
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