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:
like a salmon,
over the waves.
but with desperate vigour,
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