This entry is part 46 of 95 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Winter 2010-11


“That stick in your hand is tracing mansions
in which we shall always be together.”
—Anna Akhmatova

In the dream I am always on a raft, always
floating downstream, the river a voice just
beneath my ear, the heat and haze a coppery
taste on my tongue. The sky is a scroll
unwinding above, blue film cut through
occasionally by green fronds, vivid drapery
on rock walls. Do you know what it means?
I don’t. I am alone, of course. I have left you
behind, or you have left me. But today is another
morning. Where bodies have lain, the bed
is still warm. Outside, it’s snowing again.
I know why the blue jay keeps returning
to the same high limb to eat snow, as if it can’t
find that exact flavor anywhere else.

Luisa A. Igloria

In response to today’s Morning Porch entry.

Series Navigation← IntercessionLandscape, with an End and a Beginning →


One Reply to “Recurrence”

  1. This is a particular favorite. I love the meaning with which Luisa has invested that observation of a blue jay ( I was going to write “my observation,” but as with many of the poems in this series, she has seen it sufficiently afresh as to have as much of a claim to it now as I do.)

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