[see earlier "Three Improvisations" from the Spring Morning Porch series]
1
Hail raining down on lake water means I have hurt you.
Translation: The burn that makes no noise,
the scarlet inflorescence of the skin.
The moon’s neon sign reads smolder. Why
do you think you hear fire sirens in the valley?
But you don’t move, you stay.
2
And the leaf was no longer a leaf but a trellis of itself.
Translation: Coming back from a walk
in the woods he spoke of a ribbon of floating green;
of how, going closer, he saw the near-invisible
spider silk, its tether to the canopy. Say lace,
say beautiful flayed skin.
3
Light is always liminal.
Translation: Spittlebug striped cinnabar and clove,
frothy beard caught in the hollows. Nearby
is beebalm, nearby is sage. Such overdrawn
tenderness we cannot help. We finger each
slick bubble, think we hear the tiny pop.
06 30 2011
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
I’m sorry, this is very confusing — was this written by Luisa A. Igloria or by Dave Bonta (or someone else?) in response to Luisa A. Igloria?
Dan – I wrote these, as the signature line at the end of the poem must (hopefully) indicate clearly. I wrote “Three Improvisations” in spring (hence the link under the title); I remember enjoying the form and structure of those poems, and wanted to use them again for this one. ~ Luisa