“What is it that really matters? For the poppy, that the poppy disclose its red: for the cabbage, that it run up into weakly fiery flower.”
The kid wearing nothing but a hoodie and jeans
swoops across the boulevard on his skateboard.
The light changes. No snow, but it’s freezing.
Cars are distant specks, always moving closer.
Early enough in the day, or in between.
The wind has scoured the branches clean,
but stone dogs and lions (stubbornly paired,
flanking doorways) still wear their coats
of snow. Beneath the scratchy layers of wool
and viscose, I want to rub my hands together
to make a little flame; to steeple my fingers
then spring the gates open to a frenzy of wings,
nestled bodies— all those jeweled dreams
tumbling from the rafters and onto my lap.
—Luisa A. Igloria
In response to today’s Morning Porch entry.