These three poems by Malachy Moran take us on a journey through surreal landscapes, examining experiences of PTSD, confusion and lost innocence through strong senses of place…
by: Malachy Moran
God has a house on our street
We draw lines from the stars and down our street
past men who drape themselves in crooked doorways.
God has a house just up the block.
The yard is littered with scrap wood
and empty beer cans. Everyone is waiting for something
to happen. I count the points on Sirius, half expecting
to find some odd number. Whoever made all this
must have been a drunk. It doesn't take an engineer
to see there's something wrong with the architecture.
The sparrows fly up to Vega for the winter,
circle it three times before returning. The doorway men
argue with God down at the bar. No one has seen them,
not that anyone's been looking. Hold on to your glass.
Things here slide on a flat surface. The starlines run
at angles, wild and silver. God has not
revealed their purpose.
To Hunt Snowshoe Hare
The stamp of rabbit tracks upon the snow
have pressed to ice the memories of war
and cold that borrows hardness from our bones
has made us brittle, like we were before.
This path of frozen lakes and frozen youth
is resonant. It slants across our goggles.
We bury dread under a heavy roof,
or cotton stuffed in medication bottles.
With bullet crack, I hold aloft a prey.
Crimson on white we paint, victorious.
In dreams another bullet, other days
to toss and turn in shame, inglorious.
To wake and not know where you have drifted
Imagine
this toss and turn of waves, a kind of sleep.
We roll in tired breakers,
wind tight our blankets of seaweed.
Float off as driftwood
to lullabies of tern and albatross.
A world that grinds to sand upon itself
proceeds without us.
[AWAKE! AWAKE!]
This tide that now recedes
has left us stranded on a crooked shore.
Pick childhood from a mass
of mackerel bones and bullkelp.
Open valium oysters.
Search for things that can restore
our state of happy dumb,
so fresh revealed.
Oh world, I am not worthy
to receive you
but only say the word and I shall be healed
Malachy Moran is an American immigrant in Norway. A veteran, PTSD survivor and recovering drug addict, Malachy has lived too many lives already to believe in reincarnation. Hopefully this is it. His work is available in Rattle: Poetry, Sublunary Review, Anti-Heroin Chic and many others. Follow his journey on Threads @malformed_poetry.
Header art by Rafa Zubiria.
