No New Woman

I've found no new woman,
as you'd like to surmise.
But the next one
who braids
my mind with my heart
won't get away,
not even if she's a nun.
The next one like you
I'll lock in a room
near the sky and there
will I kiss her until
she is certain
a thousand butterflies
one by one
are lighting
all over her body.

poem by Donal Mahoney
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Wound in Cellophane

The older women come to coffee
with cookies wound in cellophane.
They talk of children

or their children's children
or their garden.
Or they simply sew

and watch the young girls trickle in,
buy berry rolls and coffee,
nibble, sip, lick fingers, blow

small parachutes of smoke,
and laugh a young girl's
world of willy-nilly.

poem by Donal Mahoney
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Bottle into Glass

Beneath the bowling-alley
bar marquee
the rain tonight

hammers off
the concrete.
Inside, beer flops

bottle into glass.
Beyond the bar,
bright lights

reveal a Bowler's day:
fluorescent shirts
red, yellow, green,

and everywhere
a roar so loud
one can barely hear

[...] Read more

poem by Donal Mahoney
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Mayan Apocalypse

December 21,2012

From shimmering oil
of ebony still

will come flailing of limbs
will come hacking

quick slashing
of hands now untied

tattooing no pattern
not even a maze

depriving gray walls
of their stone

will come spittle
wild churning rivers

[...] Read more

poem by Donal Mahoney
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Handyman

If he were perfect, then
he wouldn't be
Dan the Handyman,

laying tile
in crooked rows,
painting windows shut,

installing commodes
that flush up.
If he were perfect, then

he wouldn't take jobs
that he can't do,
because if he did,

he wouldn't be
Dan the Handyman,
whistling

[...] Read more

poem by Donal Mahoney
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Midnight Anthem

Chicago

Sunday evening. Drunk
and strolling home.

Roscoe's on his way,
block by block,

whistling as he goes
despite the lurching.

Weekend's gone,
Monday's turning.

Along the way
his fingers find

parking meter posts
are an endless xylophone

[...] Read more

poem by Donal Mahoney
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The Zombie's Wife

The zombie's wife
has a dowager's hump
and never sees the sky.
On her way to church
she steps on ants
and swipes at every fly.
Her husband Humphrey
stays at home
and scours the house
for the squeaky mouse
his wife says got inside.
Winter's coming
and the larder's bare
so Humphrey wants
his wife to fix
the mouse for supper
fricasseed or fried.

poem by Donal Mahoney
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Hospice

Listen, Dad,
Mom's dead, but
you can dance
with her again.

She's waiting
in the sky, behind
a star, humming
to the music.

You and Mom
can waltz around
the moon forever.
She may even sing

that song you like.
I'll comb your hair,
shine your shoes
and press your old tuxedo.

[...] Read more

poem by Donal Mahoney
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While Financiers Assisi

Mind you, now, my brethren,
the Scriptures never claim
one day all whores will Magdalene
and disbelievers Paul

and you will never find in Scripture
a single verse that claims
one day all thieves will Dismas
outside the castle gate

while financiers Assisi
inside those castle walls,
their sharkskin suits in tatters,
their eyes, their tin cups up.

poem by Donal Mahoney
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Convention in Miami

for Gerard Manley Hopkins

Around his navel this morning
a halo, a red stipple
Hopkins would love:
'Glory be to God for dappled things...'

It's a gift from this woman
he doesn't know
who welcomed him last night
with open arms and open legs

and sent him back to his wife
this morning, unaware
he was bringing home a souvenir,
a bright halo of crab lice.

poem by Donal Mahoney
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