I wanted to visit the museum,
to walk amongst the new displays,
the touchscreens and dress-up
booths, looking for the trace of
a fingerprint on

a terracotta fragment, imagining the
moment of shattering. You said
you passed it every day —  your
words mapping a prospect of straight
roads, white hotel fronts

and a tree-lined square where people
drink espressos at round tables. But I
was easily confused — you didn’t
warn me of the side-step of the boulevard,
the shoving current

of the crowd, the burn of nitrogen and
drilled asphalt. I nodded as you
spoke, our separate mind-pictures
merging —  a mirage, dissolving
as we parted.

— Published 6th of August 2024

About Rachel Fenton 

Rachel Fenton lives in North East England and is a professional fundraiser in her day job. Much of her poetry is concerned with autobiography and intimate experience. She writes on a wide range of subjects and is currently interested in vernacular language and found texts.