The I,
That which separates me from you,
Was the first of our sins.
Thus, at rest on the sun-bleached water,
We have learned that comfort is the father of matricide,
Mother of our rigorous decline.
Now, all that remains is the coffin ship:
black flagged,
and leaping;
like a salmon,
over the waves.
plundering
not glumly,
but with desperate vigour,
And today,
Our tourniquetted fear,
Leaves us consistently bereaved.
And yet we have moved beyond our weeping,
To linger with the lush stillness of the sky.
Oisín Breen, 36, is a poet, part time academic in narratological complexity, and a financial journalist. Dublin born, now Edinburgh-based, his debut collection, ‘Flowers, all sorts in blossom, figs, berries, and fruits, forgotten’ was released in 2020 by Hybrid. https://hybriddreich.com/oisin-breen
Photo by Alwi Alaydrus on Unsplash
