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.
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.