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