Six a.m.
The alarm jigs
into him.
He, huge
on that huge bed, jerks,
rolls to the edge,
detonates his chest,
pours to the basin
on the floor
maroon and gray collections.
Somewhere in California
a midnight one-eyed bus shoots
lettuce farm past lettuce farm
to abutment and a kiss.
Now the morning papers cry
15 sleeping Mexicans
glowed an hour or more.
First of all, your mind.
The chimes must stop,
the drums, the horns,
as well. Finally, the long,
the wild parade
of mummers crazed
you must spade off
the way my Daddy,
years ago,
when I was four,
on a bright St. Patrick's Day,
turned the soil in Mother's garden,
cursed the British
one more time
then drove his spade,
while Mommy screamed,
through the neck
of a garden snake.
Donal Mahoney, in exile now from a life in Chicago, currently lives in St. Louis, Missouri. He has had poems published in a variety of publications, including The Istanbul Literary Review (Turkey), Revival (Ireland), Catapult to Mars (Scotland), Public Republic (Bulgaria), The Wisconsin Review, The Kansas Quarterly, The South Carolina Review, The Beloit Poetry Journal, Commonweal, The Christian Science Monitor, The Chicago Sunday Tribune Magazine and Poetry Super Highway.