I never imagined that
in Arrowhead when I encouraged you to purchase
a set of engravings of the whale and Ahab that
they would end up six years later
in your airy Dublin apartment.

The one that you share with your Canadian girlfriend.

‘Look,’ you say when I visit awkwardly
for the first time,
‘we hung the whale above the fireplace.’
You both have left the bedroom door open and I see
the other picture hangs easily over your white bed.

Life, like perverse origami, folds and twists and shapes itself
so that in your apartment, my coat lies on your crisp sheets.
I watch it from the living room,
beached upon the ivory shore,
as I sip weak tea.

And those pictures, they hang so quietly on your new walls.