When I think of Portugal across the sea,
I feel sunburnt terrace tiles under naked feet
and cool Atlantic air,
I hear distant voices call my name,
tender, loving laughter
hovering in the breeze of time,
dog paws clicking on inlaid hardwood floors,
I think of a darkened house,
precious rugs and squeaky stairs, art on the walls,
a rotary dial phone in one corner.
When her son phoned from the land of peaches,
the painter sat on a green velour chair by the window
and conjured up the day that he would win an Oscar.
Stroking the panting dog, she’d call me when
she was ready to pass on the receiver.
The light from the monastery filled the sky,
heat and river fog paralyzed the city.
The painter’s daughter took cold baths at night,
they freshened up her olive summer skin.
How pretty she was in purple dresses,
with dark curls and self-made jewelry,
her warm, sad smile that runs in the family.
The dog yawned.
Out at the open coast, near the cape,
the reed grass waves and the waves break
as always, until they swallow the beach.
What remains?
Maybe salt crystals on sundrenched faces—
and longing, unfulfilled and self-sustained.
The sky over the monastery is the same.
Shadows waft across bare walls in empty rooms.
A green light fights its way through orange darkness,
a train whistles like many years ago.
Stop. Listen. Watch. Talk to me.