for a long while
I’ve been wanting
that inner peace
is so keen on claiming
that they’ve achieved
after post after post
of inspirational quotes
that is meant to give
we lost ones
belief that someday
it’ll be okay
and the things
that don’t make sense
and make some sense
but even at the end
of our days
really make sense
They say that the capacity to love
Do the math, though.
How can you divide
the finite heart into infinite pieces?
I do the math of love all the time.
The algebra of time zones,
the geometry of making schedules fit
when I’m finally, finally close enough
to touch and to hug.
And all the time, my delicate heart
is divided, over and over,
into tenths, hundredths, thousandths,
fractions of what I once had to give.
I say that no math–
not calculus, not trigonometry,
not statistics or probability
has an equation or algorithm
that will explain my heart to me.
I’m not saying goodbye
Goodbye means all the feelings will fade and our time will become nothing but old memories that slip into your mind unexpectedly.
I’m saying I’ll see you later
Because the hope of another day keeps our spark alive and I know that as long as we are waiting we aren’t forgetting.
Even fertile ground and a reliable
reputable supply of fresh water
from a mountain stream or rainstorm or
artificial means cannot support a soul
that has no roots. You could
experiment with supplements or
stimulation, whether electrical or
pharmacological, not natural.
It doesn’t matter; you’ll know
in short measure. If the soul continues
to refuse, if it will not root, you must
consider transplantation, or, in extreme
cases, extraction. I’ve often pondered
repotting myself. Maybe a soul would thrive
in full sun on the beach at Cascais or Estoril,
or in a miradouro’s shifting shade, maybe
beneath pergolas at Santa Luzia or in shadows cast
by precisely placed palms at São Pedro de Alcântara,
or within castle walls in an exquisite peacock
blue urn at São Jorge. I once discarded mine
for a moment in a ceramic sardine locket
below the ancient jacarandas on the edge
of Largo do Carmo, but, for now, it nestles
at Sintra in a crenulated stone scallop shell
sheltered within Neptune’s watchful gaze.
A plump blueberry
lightly rolled between
index finger and thumb
softly moves to
the back of my mouth
The tender, sensuous curls
of emerald kale wrapped
in the subdued magenta
of sweet and sour fresh pickled
All simple movements
supple toward my lips
dancing flavors glide and flow
drowning the hunger