Our Saudade

It revolved around Boston,
the Cape, Amherst, the Vineyard, Woburn,
an entire state—

our common ground. You—
with your accent and clearly delineated roots. Me—
with a brief history,

my mother’s story, and an incurable longing
no word in English
could contain. All of our plotting

and heightened talk went nowhere beyond
imagination. Now that I know

you are back home, I’ll fly

East so we can finally spend a moment
together on this sacred turf. You—

ashes. Me—alive
more than ever, ready to be enough
for the both of us.

Been Half a Year

without jumping through smoke
rings to find a trap
door you hint may lead
to solace. I imagine dropping

into a room filled with easy
breathing naked apes. I like my air
not so conditioned, like
to check those back

burners to ensure the pilot
light hasn’t died
with a summer breeze
that got too big

to ignore. Dizzy with oxygen,
I remember that boy who smashed
his fist through a glass pane

in our French door—so desperate
to escape 1969 bedroom
community ennui. One bloody wrist, a siren,

and that blue
cold stillness in his eyes. Now I could
just laugh

at these green candles
someone might ignite
if they want to.