Saudade

A poem.

Fingerstir the ash cloud of an old day,
With the music of a speaking shopping list:
“caraculo, necitamos pan y ojos—”
The words have slipped and my eggs are eyes.

Where do we keep them?
Cool, forgotten, pickled in the jar at the back of the fridge
Where do we keep them?
In the tacenda box the blossoms lie, still

In my garden a calcined tree stump
Embeds itself in the earth;
I lay down and curl around it like an eggshell,
Fall asleep beside/without you inside.