literature – Page 12

TWO POEMS – Paul McCarrick

The moon will not go down again,
street lights will be on forever and drive
electricity bills into walls with no seatbelts

when a father is a control bar
made of wood

and the strings snap
the puppets fall

Their heads out, curved eyes on us,
reciprocating the salty, convex cabin.
Look, there, beautiful wooden bowling balls, said my mum.

There are days when my body is a forest of old pines ailing and wailing in unison

I’m a mess
A profaner of tombs
Devoted to graves
Except mine.

we kiss good-bye;
I wait for the kettle to boil. I am
happily waiting.

Pieces of me are escaping
through the pores
in the skin
of this room

I sleep on the left side of the bed
so you can be on the right
the soft drum of your snore
signaling peaceful dreams
making me smile

From prawn to prawn
the rib dries
unbleached,
aching this unbaked line:

yesterday blew
like a wind

A scream is trapped under my third rib where they perch on
like a perilous branch. I daydream of
You: hands on my throat
me: telling you I love you

Erin hesitates, watching. The old woman is there again, sitting on the swingset overlooking the valley