Where broken objects gather.
walking through a house
where nobody has visited
in three years or more
and finding not much
very special at all: just things
which remind you
of things. books
on bookshelves, glasses
and dusty cups – something in the fridge
which may have been cheese
or an animal, trapped
and choked on hunger. posters
put up when you were 12
with thumbtacks
and a ziplock on a rabbit
still stuffed with secret pennies. the beds
all mildew, radios
which play cassettes. our place in leitrim
where broken objects gathered,
like a bend in the river
lodged with shells and rocks. you open doors
and remember how they opened, open windows
and remember
how they stick.
Scales.
sunlight in fog,
just sheets
on a washing-line.
I walk to work, shoes on,
hand
in a pocket
and hand
on the strap of my bag.
my face turns steadily
like a shadow in sunlight,
turns
toward the pavement.
the grey
strikes up and curls
and goes forward;
my steps making scales
like dead fish
in a marketplace
stall.
DS Maolalai has been nominated eight times for Best of the Net and five 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).
Fixator Press 