Landscape with Red Boots and Branch of Dead Cherry

In a photograph, a woman sits on her haunches
amid a sea of debris. Her feet are bare. A pair of red
rain boots caked with mud perches neatly at her side,
the way they might rest in a parlor. The sky is the color
of rain, the color of heaving things: water a wall
surging over highways, toppling cars and beams
and lorries. The past tense is already active here—
fields have lost their stenciled borders; there’s little left
to read in maps. Above the burning cities, snowflakes
scatter, wandering back and forth like spirits. I watch
one explode against the branch of a dead cherry.
Croak of a raven making the shape of a thousand names.

Luisa A. Igloria
03 14 2011

In response to today’s Morning Porch entry.

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3 Comments


  1. A very moving elegy, Luisa. Something like this was in the back of my mind when I watched those scattered snowflakes this morning; thanks for fleshing that vision out.

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  2. “the color of heaving things,” that’s an indelible phrase. Beautiful, again, Luisa.

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  3. How do you do it, Luisa? Your poems all speak with such empathy. Thank you for the stirring.

    Reply

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