We were in the car at a T-junction deciding
whether to turn right or left. I said ‘Go right.’

That was a mistake because as we turned
a wall of water came rushing towards us.

You didn’t try to reverse or turn back,
seeing what was coming you drove to meet it.

I wake clinging to the warmth of your back. You are still
asleep under the crushed folds of pillow and duvet

Last night we walked the field behind our house, the grass
was damp and moths kissed the torch on your forehead.

You pointed out Jupiter and Venus dangling
from a cradle moon like a mobile over a cot.

Birds pulse with the sound of morning.
The sky turns pink above the dandelion field.

The muslin curtain billows inwards, a veil
between our world and the field beyond. You stir

and in the kitchen a phone alarm tears the air open.

Lani O’Hanlon’s debut collection Landscape of the Body was published by Dedalus Press last year