One Poem by Eamonn Shanahan

After the Treatment

The morning has dressed itself and brushed its teeth
the juice is done, the eggs are boiling on the hob
the boys are hard at homework, frowning over
pencils, capital k’s, geography
their mother attends to her feeding peg.

For months we have lived under a lead ceiling
our love shuffling around in slippers, afraid
of everything, the telephone, nature.
Our happiness is haunted by its loss
the world trembles with time and stares back
like an ocean when the season is over.

I slide a CD into the player, Midnight Walker
Davy Spillane on uillean pipes, and the room
suddenly swells with the drone and the chanter
our garden, the big trees behind, the sky.

 

Eamonn Shanahan is teacher, translator and writer, currently living in Croatia, where it’s cheap enough to raise a family without being tethered to a full-time job. He has had poems published in Magma, Brixton Poets, and the anthology ‘the art of love’ (londonart.co.uk). He writes poetry and fiction (and occasional cultural journalism).

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