Sublet

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By Mira Halloran|February 2026|1 min read

Linocut of a tall window with a thin curtain lifted by a draught, printed in ochre and dark brown

The cups are hers. I learn their chips
the way you learn a stranger's name,
by saying it too often, out loud,
in the wrong room.

Her plant forgives me every Tuesday.
Her radiator knocks in a language
I pretend to understand, and nod,
and turn the dial down a little.

By March I know which floorboard lies.
By April I have stopped apologising
to the coat hook for my coat.

When she comes back I will leave the key
under nothing. I will hand it over
warm from my pocket, the way you return
something you were only holding.

❖

WRITTEN BY

Mira Halloran

Dublin / Marseille

Mira Halloran is a poet and translator who divides her year between Dublin and Marseille. She translates contemporary French poetry into English and writes her own work in both languages, often starting a poem in one and finishing it in the other. Her first collection, Weather for Tenants, came out from a small press in Cork. She is working on a sequence about the kitchens she has lived in, which so far runs to twenty-three poems and one recipe.

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