[160 words]
we drink beer. he talks
nervously – looks over
the wood-panelled patio
sidewall, past bus-
stops and into the traffic.
the traffic is loud,
and the sun is fresh black
tattoo-hot as a pattern
on skin. and the beer
tastes of bathwater
but water is not safe
to drink, and so
here we are,
drinking and chatting
and all. he tells me this man
he is certain is following him
on some man’s
behalf – an affair he’s been
having, or some business
affair – it’s like that.
this is august in cyprus.
I’m over to see the new out-
sourcing office
which he oversees now
(after firing half of my colleagues)
and in between fucking some
girlfriends and cypriot wives.
the night smells of lemons
and traffic exhaust
and throws dirt on tables
to the point you can write
down your name on the surface
with the tip of your finger
like signing a document,
signing a warrant or anything.
DS Maolalai has been described by one editor as “a cosmopolitan poet” and another as “prolific, bordering on incontinent”. His work has nominated thirteen times for Best of the Net, ten for the Pushcart and once for the Forward Prize, and has been released in three collections; “Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden” (Encircle Press, 2016), “Sad Havoc Among the Birds” (Turas Press, 2019) and “Noble Rot” (Turas Press, 2022)
