DONAL MAHONEY - POEMS

Donal Mahoney, a native of Chicago, lives in St. Louis, Missouri. He has worked as an editor for The Chicago Sun-Times, Loyola University Press and Washington University in St. Louis. His fiction and poetry have appeared in various publications, including The Wisconsin Review, The Kansas Quarterly, The South Carolina Review, The Christian Science Monitor, Commonweal, Guwahatian Magazine (India), The Galway Review (Ireland), Public Republic (Bulgaria), The Osprey Review (Wales), The Istanbul Literary Review (Turkey) and other magazines. Some of his work can be found at http://eyeonlifemag.com/the-poetry-locksmith/donal-mahoney-poet.html#sthash.OSYzpgmQ.dpbs
 
(Photo: Carol Bales)

---

​                After Listening to World News Tonight
 
When the next emperor dies 
and arrives in Hades 
there will be great applause 
 
from the other emperors who  
arrived there before him. 
They will drop pitchforks, 
 
kneel in bonfire and bow 
to their newest colleague, 
the one for whom Satan 
 
now rises and offers 
his throne so the new man 
can reign in glory as 
 
Emperor of Hades until 
someone more evil arrives, 
someone whose glee for war 
 
harmed even more people, 
people with little to lose 
except for their lives.

​                      Funeral for the Last Parent
 
They were never one
always two
yet they had five,
adults themselves now,
bowling pins today
upright in the front pew,
wondering still 
after all these years 
why the two 
were never one.
 
It's not a story
the two would tell
even if they could.
They were galaxies apart.
They had no answer
yet they still had five,
adults themselves now
who can celebrate
they're here at all,
bowling pins today
upright in the front pew.
 
No need to wonder why 
the two who loved them
were never one.
It's not a story
the two would tell
even if they could.
They're galaxies away.

​                          Home Invasion Encore
 
This time Wilma 
is ready for the bastards 
jimmying her front door,
coming back for more.
The first time she was asleep,
the bedroom light on,
the Bible open at her side
to John, Chapter 6,
"Do this in remembrance of me."
Tonight, however, 
Wilma's lying on the couch
with the lights out,
the rosary in one hand,
her late husband's pistol
cocked in the other.
Jack taught her how to use it
when she was a bride
and tonight she will pray
for the men now 
coming through the door
and then she will use it 
in remembrance of Jack
and call the police.
With all the commotion,
she'll probably miss Mass
but it's a weekday, 
no sin involved.

 
                             Dying at Midnight
 
Two big attendants 
in white coats are here 
to remove my remains.
My son called the mortuary 
after Murphy said I was gone.
The doctor, a good neighbor, 
came over at midnight, found 
no pulse and made it official.
I could have saved him the trip.
I knew I was gone.
 
My wife's in the kitchen 
crying with my daughter 
in a festival of Kleenex.
I told her I was sick
but she didn't believe me.
She thought I was faking it
so I wouldn't have to go 
to her mother's for dinner.
I don't like lamb but 
her mother's from Greece.
Lamb shanks are always
piled on the table.
Stuffed grape leaves I like
and she'll make them for  
Christmas provided I start
begging at Thanksgiving.
Every Easter, however,
it's another fat leg of lamb, 
marbled with varicosities 
and sauced with phlebitis.
 
Right now I'm wondering 
who'll win the argument
between the two angels 
facing off in the mirror
on top of the dresser.
The winner gets my soul
which is near the ceiling,
a flying saucer spinning 
out of control.
I want the angel 
in the white tunic 
to take it in his backpack.
The other guy in gray  
looks like Peter Lorre 
except for the horns.

​                               Horns Over Hooves
 
You meet all kinds of women in pubs,
women far different than women
you meet in church on Sunday
when you're in a pew with your wife
 
which is why I was surprised to hear
this beautiful woman two stools over
ask me if I believed in angels 
before I had ordered a drink. 
 
Well, as a matter of fact, I do,
I said, happy to get the small stuff
out of the way before we got down
to business, whatever that might be.
 
What kind of angels do you believe in, 
she smiled and asked, sipping a Guinness.
Well, I believe in seraphim, cherubim,
principals, thrones, dominations, all 
 
the different choirs of angels 
listed in the Bible I studied in school.
What about guardian angels, she asked.
Do you believe you have one?
 
Indeed I do believe I have one, I said,
although I saw no reason why guardian angels
couldn't be women if angels had genders
which as pure spirits they don't have.
 
And what does your guardian angel do,
she inquired, getting rather personal.
Well, I said, my guardian angel is busy
from the moment I get up at dawn
 
till I fall back in the sack at night
because Satan or one of his minions
is always trying to worm his way 
into my mind, memory or imagination
 
trying to get me to do things
forbidden by the Ten Commandments.
For example, whenever I see a beautiful woman, 
Satan always says I should introduce myself
 
and I always ask my guardian angel if I should
and he always asks what my wife would say
and I always ask if I have to tell her
and he always says I should keep walking
 
while he does what guardian angels do
and knocks Satan horns over hooves
back into Hades, something he does for me
several times a day, especially when
 
I stop at this train station pub for 
root beer on ice when my train is late 
and a beautiful woman two stools over
smiles and asks if I believe in angels.