Caolfionn makes an esker
down the middle of the bed.
To the far west, Teresa lies
shoulder skyward like the blade
of Muckish. Somewhere to the south
Euan hides himself like a drum
under the covers, punches the shape
of Cnoc na Rae from the duvet.
My knee is Ben Bulbin, the flat
of my chest, Upper Lough Erne.

In between us the bed sheets sink
into the valleys of Foyle, and Finn
and Derg. I play a game with them
pretend rivers and roads. The boys
climb the mountains of my knees.
I let them collapse under their weight
build again. Two giants striding across
the Ireland of the bed. This is Saturday
morning. By these tricks I teach them
their own geographies.