Two poems
Heat.
One of those summer storms.
D.S. Maolalai
Heat.
One of those summer storms.
D.S. Maolalai
"Roseate Spoonbills" study for book Concealing Coloration in the Animal Kingdom by Abbott Handerson Thayer; oil on paperboard; 22 7⁄8 x 26 1⁄4 in.; ca. 1905-1909; open source from the Smithsonian American Art Museum
Heat.
lies stretched
on the street like a lizard. I sit out
in sunlight
on a steel folding
chair. around me
the city
chips silver
with heat-haze. traffic;
poison scratches
on non-stick
frying-
pans.
lies stretched
on the street like a lizard. I sit out
in sunlight
on a steel folding
chair. around me
the city
chips silver
with heat-haze. traffic;
poison scratches
on non-stick
frying-
pans.
One of those summer storms.
sky's open. rain
dropping blocks
like a torn bag of potatoes
hanging off the back of a truck.
one of those summer storms
coming suddenly
with thunder – the air still hot,
and we left this morning
mostly without jackets.
I have mine, I always do,
but it's a light thing;
tan leather. I'm getting
wet as anyone,
and won't be dry
for longer. ahead of us
the dog runs through puddles
and stops to smell something dead. when we approach
she shoots again, though always stays
in eyeshot. the rain
doesn't much bother her
but has killed
our conversation.
jack has a stick he picked up
for some reason
and all of us have bottles.
behind me, chrys hides her hair
with her handbag.
beside us
the earth of the ditch
starts to rise. it was dry a second ago;
now you expect toads. it's like this
for minutes - our silence
a roar and our sandwiches
soaking. then the sun
strikes white windmills
rising on top of the mountain.
they shine
and we watch
as it approaches
slowly
like pastures
with grey horses.
sky's open. rain
dropping blocks
like a torn bag of potatoes
hanging off the back of a truck.
one of those summer storms
coming suddenly
with thunder – the air still hot,
and we left this morning
mostly without jackets.
I have mine, I always do,
but it's a light thing;
tan leather. I'm getting
wet as anyone,
and won't be dry
for longer. ahead of us
the dog runs through puddles
and stops to smell something dead. when we approach
she shoots again, though always stays
in eyeshot. the rain
doesn't much bother her
but has killed
our conversation.
jack has a stick he picked up
for some reason
and all of us have bottles.
behind me, chrys hides her hair
with her handbag.
beside us
the earth of the ditch
starts to rise. it was dry a second ago;
now you expect toads. it's like this
for minutes - our silence
a roar and our sandwiches
soaking. then the sun
strikes white windmills
rising on top of the mountain.
they shine
and we watch
as it approaches
slowly
like pastures
with grey horses.
About the Author
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).
About the Work
"I try my best to marry the lyrical and the mundane in poetry — I think combining the human voice of the day to day with a more artistic language is what I'm best at, and I like to think I've achieved it here."
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).
About the Work
"I try my best to marry the lyrical and the mundane in poetry — I think combining the human voice of the day to day with a more artistic language is what I'm best at, and I like to think I've achieved it here."
