by Africa Fine
He called me neurotic.
He said it as if neuroses are a bad thing.
Then he listed the ones he knew about.
He numbered them
but were they were listed worst to best, or best to worst?
- You won’t touch the handle of a public bathroom door
- You won’t wear flip flops
- You won’t drink from a plastic cup
- You have pump bottles of Purell stashed everywhere
- You won’t write on a sheet of paper if it’s been marked in any way
- You don’t eat chicken on the bone
- You only wear black underwear
- You won’t drive south to go north
He stopped at eight.
It bothered me.
Who makes a list with only eight items?
Five, sure. Ten, of course.
I couldn’t be with someone who didn’t understand
that eight just won’t work.
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by Donal Mahoney
bungalow folk
He slaughters his hamburger steak
with a fork and a butter knife,
massacres ringlets of onions
again and again
thumps catsup all over
the bloody commingling,
then ever so slowly
peppers and salts
and reminds me of Hrebic,
whose wife, back
on the block of my youth,
sat all summer out on her stoop,
knees awry, one eye black,
the other turning gray,
sunning the great white hydrants
of her phlebitic legs.
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Magnolia