“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.”
—D.H. Lawrence

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.

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  1. Were you thinking at all of that very old-fashioned children’s words-and-hands game, “Here is the church, here is the steeple, etc.”? Because I remember that one from early childhood–the steeple, the fingers as people–and definitely brought those images and that sense of childhood to my reading.


  2. Yes I definitely was, Marly… Though the image came to me in the process of composing. Nothing was premeditated and so it is way cool that it got there and that you got it!


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