Small leaves like torn paper sleeves on
the dogwood; green arms barely obvious.
In a quiet room with mirrors, the sounds
of breathing seem multiplied, more obvious.
Faint red smudge at the wood’s edge— if
burning, if blooming, not quite obvious.
Small rain on an east wind, small sparrow,
small cloud: the moon’s fingernail, not obvious.
I burn sheaves of things on the open plain
and look for signs of what’s not quite obvious.
Thread me silk, thread me linen and hemp.
The shroud’s undone every night, isn’t it obvious?
—Luisa A. Igloria
03 06 2011
In response to today’s Morning Porch entry.