Two Poems by Shea McInerney

Why I Am Not Prolific Certain clock configurations are more conductive to beginning: in 7:34 lies a different symmetry from 7:28. So, you see the kettle insists on the stove, but in between pleasing and scalding is tight, and the way from bedroom to kitchen is trapped. Arrested in a pocket of bed. A demon dances at my roof. I might rather live in a cave than a house, yawning to a sea, with glowing fish to read by, a canopy of jewels set in constellation, dome to amplify my singing. To a love that settles, I would prefer a love of air. Or am I lying on my back upon a pin, fluent in sign, seeking with rodent eye indication of passage? Difficult to tell in visions bent to sound. Exposing themes in seams of rock, breakable as boxes, tries the patience of water. In field and refinery, both, imperfect residence.
Making Love Still we turn back, separate in our beds, comfortable looking to opposite walls. We think. We understand each other through simile, two ideas in love. Sometimes, when the object of touching is to immerse ourselves in another, the skin can be a contradiction: gateway to the garden of a locked house, shuttered. We are free to walk the grounds, but not to open the doors to the cupboards. storied pots and plates detailing great battles or rites, clouded glass, copper rings, in carving, concept of duration, signs of religious belief in abundance and frequency of symbols, silver neck adornment, murals painted on the walls sensitive to air and light have not preserved their faces impartially, it seems deliberate the five boats set as branches of a star, each piece a letter, assembling an alphabet of this dialogue in dark, the fragments wait for sense Shea McInerney