Like a wren, like an oriole, like the quail—
there’s the mockingbird improvising in the grass.
Chittering call of a Cooper’s hawk, jay that calls
and calls until his double answers. Who
hears my voice crying out in the middle of the day,
who knows to tell the echo from its answer?
The Japanese beetles have gored open
the sides of figs velveting the tree.
You picked my hair clean of shadows.
You dropped little stones in the beaker
so the water rose and I could drink.
Sweet smell of clover, sweet-fingered fruit
ripening to rot upon the sill.
Above the sheets, a spider couples
with its prey. In their eyes’ prismed glass,
our limbs bond into brittle sugar.
That isn’t steam beneath the ceiling.
Outside, small birds continue feeding.
A strangled cry. Finally, the jay calls like a jay.
—Luisa A. Igloria
02 12 2011
In response to today’s Morning Porch entry.