Fallen branches ring
the dead cherry, each bearing
a row of teeth. The air
is soft now that the rain
has stopped: milky gruel,
thin salty broth we drink
and drink from the rim
of the bowl. So many nights
to have gone without sleep.
So many days we have walked,
fingers curled tight into palms.
So much sound in the crackly
air. We are so hungry now.
We are so eager for the dish
of melted ice in which to dunk
the loaves of dreams.
—Luisa A. Igloria
02.02.2011
In response to today’s Morning Porch entry.