Donal Mahoney Poems

The older women come to coffee
with cookies wound in cellophane.
They talk of children
...

In the center there's
a hollow
small, enclosed,
oval like a locket
...

The final years dear Mother she
was never, well, what actors call "on location."
Physically, of course, we found her
...

The last visitor before I sleep
is always the old priest
puffing up the stairs to my door,
a wine cask under each arm,
...

Chicago

Sunday evening. Drunk
and strolling home.
...

Part readily the skin
and readily the pulp,
as readily the tongues
wild apples bore,
...

Inferno of a summer day
Mother's dozing

Tommy, tiny, three,
...

In the easy heave
and lazy reclination
of their cashmere lake,
...

Listen, mister, you're a guest
at the Night Owl Club
so you can sit here
all night long, tip me
...

Part readily the skin
and readily the pulp

and readily the tongues
...