DREAMING OF PORTUGAL
I would like to walk on the white sands
of the beaches of Portugal,
wearing a Panama hat, to be the effervescent O
caught between two Ps like the O in "pop"--
the joke flag bursting from a cartoon gun.
To live in the land of the letter P
under a penumbra, eating pistachio nuts.
Maybe the roofs of Portuguese houses
are stained the same dull red that lingers
in the eye like a forbidden glimpse
of an eclipse.
To live like Pessoa,
concerned with sheep and erudition.
Maybe develop a head cold and languish
on a cliff and write sonnets to my husband.
Maybe get a husband. Learn Portuguese
for the sake of its rhymes. Walk through
the dusty streets looking for good fish
with the swagger of a minor poet
content with what’s locked away
in a dusty trunk in a rented room --
that is, her myriad names.
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