Taylor Graham The Umbrellas of Cherbourg Parapluies – enough plosives in that word to blow apart a pair of lovers. You and I at some little movie house where they showed foreign films and you figured we wouldn’t be seen. You in trench coat (shabby- genteel), collar turned. I in a flyaway yellow scarf, trying to learn a brand-new language. Tip of tongue against palate, a welled-up breath, and what the lips do. That plosive “p” released with the trapped vowel, to lend sweet music to a leaving. Rain. When I’m alone, vacuuming the house or driving to the windshield wipers’ rhythmic erasures, that theme returns to mind. You were adept at translation. I didn’t know umbrellas meant goodbye. |