A Note on the Edge

Driving to the hospital

I don't play music


though Leonard Cohen's last CD

is in the pocket of the car door


with it all getting darker

and the treaty needed


between your love and mine.

I don't play music


though Ludovico Einaudi is waiting,

hands poised above the piano,


the way yours used to be

before you played the Nocturnes—


Chopin, John Field.

I don't play


but the frosted trees strike

the rim of the sky like a bell


or a note on the edge

of a Tibetan singing bowl.


And another part of me

is kneeling down to pray.


Lani O' Hanlon

The Irish Times


Last night it woke me, a thimble of light cutting

through the skin in the curtain, on your side of the bed.


You slept on, unaware of its still nesting

like the white sea glass we found on Curragh strand.


But it must have affected you all the same;


two hares rose up in the field beyond,

a vixen cried out, her throat full of moon.


I touched the silver thumbprint on the back of your head.


Lani O' Hanlon 

Poetry Ireland Review 123