is a book of lack, of wanting, of disruption;
its index made of trails and backroads
cutting through fields of cane and red earth
to shantytowns whose roofs have the glint of well-
thumbed coins in moonlight— Here at the wharf
are all who answered summons tacked on storefronts
and windows of laundromats, advertising labor
in the bowels of the earth or on galleons
bound for kingdoms raised on the backs
of slaves. Henceforth every cube of sugar,
every pannier of traded goods is carried
first upon your shoulders: cotton, iron,
wood; hemp and paper, even the ink
with which the bill of lading’s writ.
At the beginning
of spring is a thaw or the river’s swell—
At the beginning of dusk is mauve or teal.
At the beginning of love,
a tendril or tear.
—Luisa A. Igloria
04 18 2014
In response to Via Negativa: Rose-colored Glasses.
Pequeñas Odas
@velveteenrabbi (Rachel Barenblat) asked for short poems of praise today on Twitter.
Here are some I wrote:
Praise be the pain
that seared us and left
as quickly as it came.
*
Praise be the cheek that burned
as if from flame,
that now warms the pillow or my hand.
*
Praise be the gaps
between whose gates
the hours are parsed.
*
Praise be the heart’s
old shawl of tears
and its kind nap.
*
Praise be the milk
of everyday desire
that we can measure into cups.
*
Praise be the moon
and its thin silver hoop
made as if new.
*
Praise be the quick-
ness of what stirs within,
flame standing up to wind.
Some of us never learned
to twirl a banded hoop
around our hips, never
learned to shake the belly
of the dance; or never coaxed
a rain of templed silences
from open lips of bells.
What brassy notes winds croon,
the blossoms know already—
We lean our heads
against the rain; eventually,
our colors stain the pavement.
—Luisa A. Igloria
04 16 2014
In response to Via Negativa: Makeshift.
The Buddha in me
waves to the Buddha in you— and sometimes
it is the other way around. Mutually, we surprise
each other, peering out suddenly from behind
a potted plant at a crowded mall, careening
into a stack of trays at the cafeteria, skidding
on a sidewalk sticky with rain and pollen
so we have to help each other up. Sometimes
you’ve paid the fee at the toll before I even drive
up to the window. Today, during my lunch break,
I crouched on the front steps of a building to scrape
and pack snow into the shapes of birds: after the first
one, I made another, then another; until there were
a dozen of them lined up with pebbles or bits of dirt
for eyes. The tops of their heads glistened in the sun.
Most everyone rushed by, preoccupied with their own
worries. You were the small one that shyly ventured out
from behind your mother’s market basket to ask politely
if you could take a snow bird into your cupped hands.
—Luisa A. Igloria
04 15 2014
In response to Via Negativa: Onion Snow and Picture Desk Live: The Guardian.
At random times, a memory
comes as if from out of nowhere: in church,
between epistle and homily, the hand that snakes
through darkness to fondle her breast in the crowded
cinema. Or in the office, listening to the flush
of a commode echoing in the hallway— A waterfall
that bathes the edge of the delivery table with blood
and fluid; and sometimes in the dim light of early mornings,
that gelled sheet tinted ruby which issued from between
her legs to draw on the tiled bathroom floor
the outlines of a map, country with no name.
—Luisa A. Igloria
04 14 2014
In response to Via Negativa: Searchers.
From tree to tree
whatever we looked at flashed its small beacon of light;
whatever we touched pressed back with its own question.
What the leaves shaped in the air
with their motion spoke with the subtexts of wind.
When we sighed we set screen doors
swinging at dusk.
What kisses we left in the grass
were bright as mirrors stitched on cloth.
—Luisa A. Igloria
04 13 2014
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
To write on water,
in the native idiom, means
a favor or a debt whose repayment
has been promised in the fluid,
unforeseeable future: today’s
material need secured through
mixed currency— one part faith
and the other desperation;
or some other bind only a god
might fathom, an interest
of stringent terms exceeding
the single instance of exchange.
—Luisa A. Igloria
04 12 2014
In response to Via Negativa: Saved.
Languor is not the same as lassitude,
in the way hello or even hi is not the same
as hey; gratitude is kin, not sibling to tepid
appreciation. Perhaps the most distant of all
is report for duty. Where does the fickle
heart go at first sign of a cloud? Who comes
to fold down the yellow parasols while the sun
is still shining? who rolls up the awnings,
takes down the Welcome signs, who
picks up the phone to call for a cab?
—Luisa A. Igloria
04 11 2014
In response to Via Negativa: Empty.
Dysecdisis
They showed us the skin,
ivory as parchment, traced
with a grid of shadows
like chain mail: not one
clean unblemished sheet
or sheath, but a rough
garment peeled off
in patches, slow
disrobing for the new
still writhing to break
loose of that dead self—
—Luisa A. Igloria
04 10 2014
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.