D.S. Maolalai
Bio:
D.S. Maolalai lives in Ireland and has been nominated four times for Best of the Net and three 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).
Patterns in the rocks
driving down kilkennyas a favour to aodhain – a tripto check for fossilsin the emptied dregs of coal. this lizard which lived in irelandsome million something years ago – and he’s hoping to use its bonesto tell something about the water. we park up
on the roadsideand stagger down a path,slick with the sogginessof sulfur black mud. there are twigs,and over there a river. sticks split beneath usand cling with wet mosslike bones, holdingin broken arms. I look with him,not knowing
what I'm looking for. "patterns in the rocks",he says, but I see thoseanyway. after a while I give upand leave him searching. watchas a birdlands between us and stretches its wet neck. I eat a sandwichand toss rocks into the river. I confess;
I'm not checking very carefully. it's possiblemy boredom sets science back for years.
on the roadsideand stagger down a path,slick with the sogginessof sulfur black mud. there are twigs,and over there a river. sticks split beneath usand cling with wet mosslike bones, holdingin broken arms. I look with him,not knowing
what I'm looking for. "patterns in the rocks",he says, but I see thoseanyway. after a while I give upand leave him searching. watchas a birdlands between us and stretches its wet neck. I eat a sandwichand toss rocks into the river. I confess;
I'm not checking very carefully. it's possiblemy boredom sets science back for years.
Citrus.
though also, I remember torontomainly for canadiansunshine;waking hungoveron my days off from work and going to kensingtonto pick upthe pineapple juicefrom the lean-to stallsrun by hippies in glass bottles. you drank it inand tasted somehow fresh as yesterday. then you'd walk aroundalive on a wednesday morning,going to browse bookstoresand pick up netsof oranges. there was something;the sunhot as lemons,brightas a new page. sometimesmy sometimes girlfriend would call me. sometimes I'd answerand dance for herin the sunthe way birds doaround peels of citrusand othercolourful things.
Mass.
candles the colourof bark-stripped tree-branches. all sycamore,willowand birch.