Some nights
Some nights I stand in my garden
looking at my tree,
and Himself on it
smiling at me.
Sometimes I think I can
take Him off His cross
and pitch Him into heaven,
then pull my legs in,
straight, like a dancer
counting sevens,
arms thrown to the sides,
my fingers with the flies
and thumbs at my palms
looking for holes.
Then close my eyes and swing
my arms around,
then swing them like a hammer, up
to send me following
like a firework.
Mo O’Mahony has been published here and there, and has not won any awards. He came from Ireland to London to study painting. He has a little website