By Aoife Mannix 

To let the sapphire of the sky seep under my skin 

so that the blue of January is not bitten through 

by grey rats.  They scurry through my mind 

with their nibbled question marks. Their teeth  

gnaw at the pipes under the floorboards. My nights  

are pockmarked with lost babies, indigo starfish. 

You are dreaming your own murder mystery. 

Tiny glitches between parallel universes. 

Time pours through my hands. I am losing you to my phobia 

of being in two places at once.  How we are both in this city, 

yet neither of us are at home.  I write you letters about teeth 

because I don’t know how to help you get the words out. 

I worry all these long car journeys through the storms  

of broken trees are stripping away your singing  

in the morning. Your turquoise melodies. 

Do you remember when we both understood the tune?  

Before all these miles got lost in translation because I broke  

our house in two. I swear I only ever wanted to keep you safe.  

The waters rise around us.  Noah made some tough choices 

between unicorns and the price of swimming. The lightness  

of dove feathers long after they soared over the horizon.