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And if love is love is love
then love is the slice of frosted cake
sitting on the silver spatula he’s holding
– steady wrist, reaching arm –
the cute wedge he has cut for Alaina.
The phone rings. He freezes.
If love is the thin strip of green
on her summer dress
or the elegant stretch of her body
smoothly espousing the lawn
then her body is a highway longing the shore
as he drives in a daze.
 
The light sundress, remember?
Thin line colour of sweet olive
coiling now to surround the china
of the saucer – bone-white –
with a listel of gold.
If love is a body, is a body.
 
As he drives
hands clasped on the wheel,
heart hushed, brains on mute,
waves relentlessly lick the sand.
Foam like sugar, like whipped cream
on his fingers, her lips.

 

Toti O'Brien
  
  ‘The Moth is a beautiful creature’ David Mitchell

‘It manages to have gravitas and coolness simultaneously’ National Poetry Library (UK)

‘No other magazine like it’ Billy Collins

‘A rare literary gem’ Dermot Healy

‘The Moth is an amazing magazine’ Donal Ryan

‘The Moth magazine is a thing of beauty’ Caoilinn Hughes


   

       

 
 
    
   
         
    
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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