You fashioned an eight-foot boat from twine and hawthorn
flowering, thick
and we set out on the road, though I could not swim
never needed to
and worried what would happen if I fell in, but you thought of everything
you always did
and handed me a life jacket and a bottle of gin, winking at me
grey eyes
and telling me that if the first failed, the second would do the trick
always a plan b
and so I took them, though the jacket felt more like chainmail
clinking, heavy
and the gin looked something like saltwater, thick and turgid
sharp and citrus
and reminding me of home, where the road wasn’t so dusty
the road is so long
and the sky wasn’t so obscenely blue and the rain fell in thick clumps
such a clean earth
and the rooms were damp but you weren’t there and I had five seashells
and a purple flower
on a piece of string. Now I’d only the road
and it was time to start rowing again.
flowering, thick
and we set out on the road, though I could not swim
never needed to
and worried what would happen if I fell in, but you thought of everything
you always did
and handed me a life jacket and a bottle of gin, winking at me
grey eyes
and telling me that if the first failed, the second would do the trick
always a plan b
and so I took them, though the jacket felt more like chainmail
clinking, heavy
and the gin looked something like saltwater, thick and turgid
sharp and citrus
and reminding me of home, where the road wasn’t so dusty
the road is so long
and the sky wasn’t so obscenely blue and the rain fell in thick clumps
such a clean earth
and the rooms were damp but you weren’t there and I had five seashells
and a purple flower
on a piece of string. Now I’d only the road
and it was time to start rowing again.
Luke Power is a writer from the west of Ireland who creates prose, poetry and songs. His work has appeared and is forthcoming in Sonder, ROPES, The Ogham Stone and Vox Galvia. His first collection of short stories is on the way. Twitter: @powerwrites.