DS Maolalai


Steel wool

in our shared
apartment courtyard,
voices bounce, 
angled like water
coming out of an 
over-strong tap. knocked 
by the concaves
and convexes of piled-
over crockery:
upturned spoons. 
things are coming
through the window — 
voices loud
and voices quiet. 
I listen, cleaning dishes,
moving knives
in stupid ways,
making splashes, wet tile. 
on the patio 
someone talks
and sprays me the guy
she's stopping seeing. 
someone talks
about a business 
opportunity. talks
about his dog. 
sounds spark
circle silver,
like scratches
in silver on pots. 
I listen as detail 
pours over
my hands — 
scrub steel wool 
at the stains
on my window. 



I also have trouble with conversation and that doesn't matter either.

rivers on rivers,
sickening streams
blistering red
and hell with 
disappointment.

I am a hand
closing, and open 
as a flower
in springtime; it may not look that way
if you can't see past
the small apartment
and the drunken
all-night typing,
but I am.

fill the sink
with mold
and rotten dishcloths;
this signifies 
nothing. the bed
and its unwashed sheets,
the shit-stains on the toilet,
the broken radio
and unread books;
nothing.

I am a tall man,
I'm in love,
I have a jaw
that could crack a fresh apple.

I am a diamond
crushed
in the heart of a star
and the endless running day,
too fast for the night
to catch up with.



Dadaí Mór

he wrote amateurish
poetry, longhand in blue ink
on blue notepaper. 
was an excellent
gardener. and we’ve 
talked about it: 
probably he was also
a fascist, in that early-on time
when that was a thing
which just happened. that's the thing
we don't talk about. not
in the family, only alone
and in poems, and my grandmother
once on a documentary. like, 
clearing out his office 
when the house was being 
sold, my brother found all
of these leaflets — all headlines
about "shylocks" and mapping
the war. at the time
we thought it funny. 
our grandad! what a fact! 
look: I told people,
when I heard about the marches,
it was hating the english 
which got him on with hitler. 
but look: he was a fascist — 
I remember a kind man
who gardened like an artist. he died
when I was ten — do you trust
my judgement from then? 

DS Maolalai has been nominated nine times for Best of the Net and seven times for the Pushcart Prize. His poetry has been released in two collections, Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden (Encircle Press, 2016) and Sad Havoc Among the Birds (Turas Press, 2019)

 
 

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