Arguments Between Angels

Beads

—Poems by Donal Mahoney, St. Louis, MO
—Photos by Stacie Sherman, Orangevale, CA

CONTINUITY

I'm just a dog barking,
I tell my wife who's upset
with my yakking on and on
at our weekly meeting
on a Saturday morning
stationed in our recliners
facing forward as if we were
in the same row on a plane
with the middle seat empty.

I tell her eventually
any dog will stop barking
if you give him a bowl of kibble
or let him in the house
or find his ball and play fetch.
Or do what my mother did
when I was an infant bawling
and woke my father who faced
work as a lineman the next day.

My mother would get out of bed,
grab her old bathrobe
and whisk me to the rocker.
Even to this day,
many decades removed,
it's the best solution:
Put a breast in my mouth
and silence will ensue.
Eventually I may even coo.

_____________________

SURPRISE, SURPRISE

The mother's dead.
Thirty years later
you meet the daughter
and realize the daughter
is the mother again,
poking her finger
in your chest half an hour
after her plane lands.
The same laugh knocks
folks in the elevator
back a bit.

Every time the daughter
grabs your arm
to emphasize a point
the way the mother did,
you want a ticket
to the Maldives
or maybe Bulgaria.
Sofia in the summer
might be nice.

This time, however,
you stay put.
She found you
on the Internet.
You must admit
the freckles
across her nose
scream she's right:
You are her father.
Surprise, Surprise.
Her mother never said.

 Rock Tree

FALLOUT FROM THE WAR ON WOMEN

I was warm and toasty,
curled up, napping
in amniotic fluid,
without a worry
when suddenly
this metal thing
came into my room

poked around
and pulled me out.
The doctor stabbed me,
smashed my head,
cut off my arms and legs, 
threw my pieces
in a bucket
with the others.
It's been a busy day
at the clinic.

At the closing hour,
a nurse dumped
the bucket
in a freezer sack,
took it out in the alley
and threw it in a bin.
In the morning
a private truck

took the sack to
the garbage dump.
The driver tossed it
on the highest pile,
launching flies,
at least a thousand.

Sitting up here now
I can tell you
I don't need arms or legs.
I can hear
the angels singing.

______________________

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.

 Arch Detail, Pisa

A NIGHT IN MOROCCO

Middle of the night he flies out of bed
to the commode only to wonder
in the dim light minutes later
if that's blood or simply a good-bye
from his wife’s stewed tomatoes,
a Moroccan dish she found on the web.

When he asked for a third serving
he pronounced them delicious.
So too, he said, was her dessert,
the Moroccan plum mousse
with the dark plums he likes.
Even with the ceiling light on

he doesn’t know now what he sees
so with his medical history he's
speeding at midnight to the ER
where the doctor says better safe
than sorry and orders a fast
colonoscopy to solve the mystery.

When he finally gets home, he tells
his wife when her boss comes over
for that big dinner Saturday night,
why not make Moroccan tomatoes
and her magnificent plum mousse.
He may never forget either.

____________________

AN EMAIL ON SUNDAY

Some emails
are more difficult
to receive 
from a child
long out of college

the daughter who writes
her cancer is back
but the doctor says
with chemo and surgery
things should be fine

and all the while
the father wonders
why she didn’t call
at midnight and let
the telephone scream

hysterically in the night
to deliver the news
a computer is too
cold a messenger
to deliver hot terror

on Sunday morning
while machine guns
of sleet drive
bullets too bright
into the ground

 Victorian Hair Memorial, Bayou St. John

New Orleans, LA

CHOMPING

For some, too soon.
But none know when.

For some she’s still
a child at 49

with cancer
in the gut

spreading,
chomping.

Stage 4,
the doctors say.

Chemo
may help.

Runs in the family.
Brother survived it.

For some, too soon.
But none know when.

_______________________

Today's LittleNip:

DIFFERENT SIDES OF SAME COIN

Hands Up!
Don’t Shoot!

Pants Up!
Don’t Loot!

______________________

—Medusa, thanking today's contributors and wishing everyone the best of luck on this Friday the 13th!

Valentine Sky, Rattlesnake Bar, Folsom, CA