Touch

We had planned to leave,

But she was slowly torn at by the baking pains,

They came up in her and at her and through her,

And she had to soothe herself.

But, even though we had just called an end to everything,

When I saw her hand move up her sallow legs,

The top of the Venetian lace she’d said was not for anyone but herself,

It had to be for me,

And thank Christ though it was not, it was.

And the eyeful of each other’s lips we shared was enough,

And soon fabric tore at the ankles,

And the white hotness brought to mind another day:

She wore soft Spanish linen but only front and back,

And we were together on the lightning-struck Adriatic Coast.

A poet, part-time academic in narratological complexity, and financial journalist, Dublin-born Oisín Breen's widely reviewed debut collection, ‘Flowers, all sorts in blossom, figs, berries, and fruits, forgotten’ was released Mar. 2020.

Breen has been published in a number of journals, including About Place, the Blue Nib, Books Ireland, the Seattle Star, Modern Literature, La Piccioletta Barca, the Bosphorus Review of Books, the Kleksograph, In Parentheses, the Madrigal, and Dreich Magazine.