Five Poems by DS Maolalai

by DS Maolalai

In The Flesh Like a Boot

houdini: she takes

off her bra with a movement

like a snake coming out

of his tail. but this isn't

a sex poem: she leaves on

the sweatshirt – falls down

on the sofa in the light

coughing blue of tv. I get it:

she wants to be comfortable.

I want to be too. it's late

on a friday – dinner and too

many drinks. once at this point

we'd be pulling down waistbands

to hips with the marks of our belts

in the flesh like a boot

in a flowerbed. now just tv,

a hot cup of tea and a beer or two

more on the sofa. the dog

likes this better: she gets

to join in. a friend of mine

conceived, she says she is certain,

her daughter with their dog on the bed

while they fucked. I know,

I know: we've made jokes –

she's a pretty sweet kid.

I take chrysty's bra – feel the material

under my thumbs, then take it upstairs

to the laundry. it's still nice to fuck,

but we're both full already.

perhaps in the morning

with light coming grey through the window,

with nothing to do for the day really,

and the dog safely locked in her crate.

Babe, I'm Trying

downstairs it's a cross-

legged birthday party.

a bbq out on the balcony.

all the girls are brazilian

and are speaking – for once –

portuguese. I guess that means

she's finally dumped him.

we've heard them for hours

at approximately six week intervals

after each of her latest

infidelities: babe, I'm trying to love you

but you're making it so hard!

you wouldn't think,

meeting him in the elevator sometimes,

that he had so little dignity.

Saddlebags Sidesaddle

he's cycling – she's riding

the back of his bicycle. sitting

on top of his saddle-

bags sidesaddle, some hair

in her mouth and her ankles

tucked closely together. one hand

holds his hip like a boat-

rudder; the other one clutches

the side of her skirt. she looks a princess

and he like a fairground machine

moving horses around with

hydraulics. it's sunset, 9 o'clock –

they are taking the quayside to town.

athletic and elegant – her eyes about, his

on ahead. I watch from the door –

they approach and go past me

as if I were a tree or a pillar. and

he's handsome, of course, (with

good legs) and she's beautiful

with pretty good everything.

their shadow is thrown down behind

slanting right from them,

like a charcoal grey carpet

has been rolled out ahead on the road.

Earnest Young Men

he was really quite skinny.

drawn out and tired

and trying his very

wet best; a young guy,

maybe 20 – college

age, close to it, walking

all day in the neighbourhood.

and he rang himself in

as I was sitting

for dinner – stood there,

waving his leaflets

like a dog with a weeklong

dead bird.

I wasn't unpleasant –

time swings

and I've done the job myself;

tramping through assignments

of a three-street stretch of suburb,

desperately selling

subscriptions to cancer charities,

various electricity

providers and, for a while,

to the Irish Dog Trust.

I never begrudged anyone

for saying straight out

they weren't interested – better that

than waste 10 minutes

giving the speech

before getting your "no",

and he took it quite positive

also. as a job

it’s not nothing – I know they say

the salesman gets most of it,

but people aren't generous

by themselves

and some still goes to where it should,

which it wouldn't

without these earnest young men

standing on doorsteps,

working

through three street areas,

crossing a list off of

houses, trying

their very wet

best.

The Best Things We Say

art stutters. the cold wine

on the cold

of the back of the throat.

the cigarettes roast up–

badly rolled, tasting of paper,

of ash and of words

sputtered out in reaction and haste.

we were outside on capel st

after a dinner recently. chrysty

was acting in love and I acting

distracted–I needed to shit

out a meal of thick steaks,

of red wine and hot

fried potatoes. we dressed

well and everyone

was very well dressed.

I just love being in it: seeing

nights happen. even seeing them

happen without me. people

taking photos; drinking and saying

smart things. everyone's a wit

outside bars at 11–getting

a laugh and forgetting. the best things

we say are as permanent

as the ash of alexandria,

the smoke of new popes over rome.

I could walk through this city

and could never write down

all the words which come over

in overlapped clusters and unopened petals

on flowers in the morning of the world.

even graffiti–piss-smeared and stinking

of mackerel is better

than anything ever typed out.