Saudade

You leave each morning to lavender, speaking to ghosts upon your breath; it could be a good morning again despite a sneeze in church, your culpable hand, equipped at dawn, at the night’s sick end, again.    

And so, I ran across something, which we, English Speakers, do not possess:
The correct word for saudade is gone, or more like: “it may never be again.”              

The inner ache is ignored, tethered like the rope pulled through packed snow,
leaving the single impression on a lawn, a forgotten chore, straggling after father, as he said: “again?”      

I remember the face pressing up against that car window clearer than
the true blue bridge of your nose that fawned me, as I said again, again—                

There was no hesitation when I asked, “have you ever been in a fight?” You cocked: 
“Once I hit John with a closet rod because he fucked my ex-girlfriend.”              

Finally I disagreed with something I read: “Grief has no face.” I’m far too familiar with the bleary-eyed, as I made my bed ‘The Safe’ and everything else hot lava. I pawned every Doggy, Genie from the movie Aladdin, and Beanie Baby from the shelf—no one’s burning again.  

Thoughts in the stairwell are steep, like the strong Darjeeling, sitting cold by the sink.
It’s all far sexier when said correctly in French—“l'esprit d'escalier,” this drawn retort, utilized when it’s too late.     
   
Before Uncle Al’s funeral, I got the white arrangement from Moe’s, and stepped into St. Bernadette’s just as a Mariachi band pushed through the throng of a settling quinceanera. My insides pulled like poles, which I’ve never straddled again.                    

When you say wicker basket, it’s a windstorm, making you the brief tempest of summer. So there’s value in imitation? Remember how the starfish loses limbs, if ever, you’re severed from being continuous daughter, as you kick up dust, (as—shit), as you reach for your fallen mother.            

During the thundering, the senselessness inside your mouth, may you always choose you, I chose you: Raise the overwhelming cup, exuberance that pulls you (who me?), despite all our drifting, despite that refrain: again.       

Mrs. Cirit saw a whale in my Turkish coffee, grounds for kismet approaching, so think of what you have never considered, she said, Think of the bolt of cloth, vermillion on your shoulders that will catch an eye forever, material to fall asleep to again.            

I’ll keep up the practice won’t I? I won’t lose myself in the small of an hour to reckon and laugh at the thirsty: Eris, goddess, tripping in discord and strife, as if she’s the one who’s running in parking lots, and passes out in the bushes— again.