We go leaving ourselves in every direction
We dwelt easily in vacancies between words—even before
an ambiguous invitation overseas. Eyes met over coffee; shared
sighs at The Birth of Venus. In St. Gallen, our palms touched
volumes weighted by monastic silence. Ill-starred, we slept
in platonic sacks, alpenglow tented indifferently overhead.
Then, accidentally lost in Slovenia, lips softly brushing
truths—never spoken. My regrets and a tangled loyalty
—pieces all scattered in our departure: mouth that mistook
your silence for a kiss, absence for a mistranslation—
broken German that stuttered what might have been love.
by Christine Darragh
Christine Darragh is a hand-bookbinder writing and working from her home studio in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Her poetry has previously appeared in Structo, Topology, Twyckenham Notes and Typishly.