Poem: Saudade for Our Seventh Year

Saudade for Our Seventh Year

Words + Image: Alina Stefanescu
QuailBellMagazine.com

 I. 

Watching the freshwater stream 
find its way between moonlight 
and stone, we are unusual, 
if so they say.

But we are common
as well- occurring 
frequently in 
Persian literature:
those two who 
fell in love
by word 
of mouth.

II. 

The confession turns my
words into crowded
conglomerations,
traffic jams stuck thick 
in the throat. I ran into 
him- an accident- resulting 
in a run-on sentence 
to explain an event without
leaning on others.

Oh, but you know
it when you see it, I
assure, you know the 
caustic grin attached 
to the face of a rejected 
suitor, and how it billboards 
clear as advertisement
that he aspires little, only 
to remain, somehow, the 
sarcastic best friend.


At worst, in the fine print
beneath the ad, he aims 
to be a mordant:
corrosive as crab apple
puckers your cheeks 
the force by which your 
face sours into frieze.

III.

After bathing 
I reached down 

discovered that 
smidgen of blood, 
the remains of 
a curse. 

Still, I am bad
at relaying 
disappointment.

No matter, he says, 
fondling me as if 
the space betwixt my legs 
held more than closing
punctuations, even 
hallowed sacraments. 

But we can’t 
take things
to appropriate
conclusions,
I begged
his hand
flush hope
to hold out 
for fuller 
harvest
on the 
following 
day. 

He grinned
pulled out a
parentheses so
light, and put me 
in places where 
even two little
letters “n” and 
“o” , proved too 
heavy to lift and 
put together.

IV.

Marriage is 
the public act 
of fastening one
life to another. Now
we hitch our rides
free from the
former delusions-
no free rides, no
consonance free
from the labor
of making it.

Harmony is 
what happens 
when Pythagoras
absorbs the sounds made
from anvils of all sizes
hammered by blacksmiths 
within a shared moment 
in time. Harmony is 
what happens in 
our house as ratios. 
Also, it happens when 
you suck down a word’s,
savor the marrow
discover to join 
as an aftertaste; 
fastening its 
consequent.

V.

The performance of
love leaves little
behind- 

this lyre on the
pillow, and the lie
in the mind.

VI.

Never discount
what one 
might do
with 
a thorn

stitched 
deep 
in his side

sourcing
this single
repeating
sigh

VII.

The spectacle of every wedding 
leads to the fact of nights like this:
three wild things asleep in their beds,
two restless parents reading Walker Percy 
naked, with only the backyard buzz 
of crickets, amorous bullfrogs, and 
too much warm beer between us.

Remember: Walker’s delicate binding 
parts its legs, inviting our nostrils to 
partake in these particular secrets.

Also: Your lips inventory my scars 
as my lips loosen like derby 
flags around our settled stories.

Don’t forget: Your palms are etched 
with an imprint of my body, the way 
silk recalls how to pour itself 
round a curve, still keep a fold.

Preserve us in the platinum of 
moonlight, even though the price
of perfect memory amounts to
hard ironing, creases set fast,
each wrinkle in the skin winding
us further from the skein.

Only this: Coitus, please interrupt us.

#Unreal #Poetry #AlinaStefanescu #Saudade #Relationships #Bonding #Love #Marriage
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