Laura Hannett

Portugal
 
Let’s say we go. Can’t you hear it now: 
Whatever happened to so-and-so? 
Retired to Portugal, a few years ago. 
I heard he died, or was it her?

Eventually we’ll be a blur
to all who knew us and called us friends,
on this side of the sea or that.

In the meantime, there are idioms to learn,
and our children to yearn and worry for.
And we can’t ignore the droning roar 
of hovering wars, whatever the shore.

Expat and exile: They’re not the same. 
One teases the glamour of moveable feasts; 
one’s homesick and wan, and smacks of defeat. 

There’s nothing glamorous about you, or me. 
And home is where they bury us.

Still, over the years, a strange plaza has gleamed
again and again in my disorienting dreams—
brilliant colors and snapping flags,
Vinho Verde and grilled sardines. 

Bio: A native of Central New York, Laura Hannett earns her keep as a licensed massage therapist. She is always looking for the right word; sometimes she finds it. Other poems have appeared in Neologism Poetry Journal, Mania Magazine, Verse-Virtual, Last Stanza Poetry Journal and The Bluebird Word.