Everyone’s a stranger.

​

*

​

Last night salt-sliced Atlantic
winds severed hawthorn limbs;
this morning my copper-colored dog
breathes their stories.

​

*

​

I wonder if the three green parrots
that often chastise early hours
have renounced their cloud-torn sky.

​

*

​

The astonished leaves chatter
along Porto’s cobbled streets
and alleys, the rain-slapped stairs.

​

*

​

Someone stomped the one lilac-face
thistle that thrived in the sidewalk.
Why?

​

*

​

We have come to a city that insists
on beauty; it wears its centuries, its 
histories with tiles and stone, though 
many crumble into arms of bougainvillea.   

 

*

​

The storm-stirred sea
is vexing 
this vanishing
beach.

​

*

​

At first glance, a path of
semi-precious stones or slivers
of jars and bottles dashed against
the rough shore. Specks of colors,
light. Scattered wedding confetti.
G/litter.

​

*

​

Following the Camino Portuguese,
pilgrims journey onwards—
church to church.

​

*

​

 The Church of St. Francis
I sit counting my dead—
but one hand’s reluctant
fingers are not enough and I
have no heart to consider 
the mathematics; to carry over
the many losses from left hand
onto right.

​

*

​

Senhora de Fatima
crowned in gold, white 
roses at your feet. 
Women come at midday to pray,
to sit in your peace.

​

*

​

Hail Mary, full of Grace…
her heart is pierced with swords.
Of course.
Her Son.
One candle lighted, summoning my son.

​

*

​

Yesterday, a small Portuguese woman stopped
us on our walk, smiling, motioning to my dog,
talking all the while. Kind-eyed. I nodded
and smiled, smiled and nodded. She reached
to touch my dog, to hug me, 
to kiss my cheek.

​

*

​

The Uber driver from Pakistan
tells me of studying literature in
University. He asks if I like poetry. 
He recites Rumi all the way home.

​

*

​

Today I begin
to unpack 
the years.