Glenfiddich
You wafted the thick fog of smoke
away from the space between us,
and in the same movement,
you beckoned me forwards.
Your feeble hands trembled
and you slurred an invitation
as whisky-filled blood pumped
throughout the body you inhabited.
I shuffled towards you in my slippers
and Saturday morning pyjamas
and you lifted me on to your lap,
your uneasy fingers digging into my ribs,
shaking under the weight
of someone who used to be a toddler.
The cocktail of whiskey and tea
embraced the both of us
while you embraced me,
your willowy arms and raised veins
holding on until you couldn’t anymore.
Jemma O’Donovan
Bindweed Magazine 