Saudade for Our Seventh Year
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.
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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