[poem temporarily hidden by author]


In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Series Navigation← RefrainDear heart, I take up my tasks again: →

Poet Luisa A. Igloria (Poetry Foundation web page, author webpage ) is the winner of the 2015 Resurgence Prize (UK), the world’s first major award for ecopoetry, selected by former UK poet laureate Sir Andrew Motion, Alice Oswald, and Jo Shapcott. She is the author of What is Left of Wings, I Ask (2018 Center for the Book Arts Letterpress Chapbook Prize, selected by Natasha Trethewey); Bright as Mirrors Left in the Grass (Kudzu House Press eChapbook selection for Spring 2015), Ode to the Heart Smaller than a Pencil Eraser (Utah State University Press, 2014 May Swenson Prize), Night Willow (Phoenicia Publishing, 2014), The Saints of Streets (University of Santo Tomas Publishing House, 2013), Juan Luna’s Revolver (2009 Ernest Sandeen Prize, University of Notre Dame Press), and nine other books. She is a member of the core faculty of the MFA Creative Writing Program at Old Dominion University which she directed from 2009-2015. In 2018, she was the inaugural Glasgow Distinguished Writer in Residence at Washington and Lee University. When she isn’t writing, reading, or teaching, she cooks with her family, knits, hand-binds books, and listens to tango music.

3 Replies to “[poem temporarily hidden by author]”


    And I have only my hungry heart, my/ wobbly heart: I cart it everywhere I go.

    It is when things are exactly
    where they ought to be, that
    you begin to wonder where
    you might have lost yourself
    or found yourself needing
    all these quicksilver thoughts
    of longing, of desire pulsing
    through your hungry heart,
    your wobbly heart, and you
    wander among the debris
    of past lives, old loves, fallen
    dreams in crumbled houses,
    carting your throbbing heart
    through every dark chasm
    posted with forbidding signs:
    “no hearts accepted here”,
    and bravely you walk away,
    still carting your defiant heart
    through uncharted streets of
    lost loves and wanton desire.

    Now, you find yourself lulled
    in a spring garden as a flower
    stripped of its honey colours,
    a mere tendril, a bud worn
    as some valediction, and still
    you dream and chase the
    will-o’-the-wisp, and cart your
    heart, your wobbly heart,
    to parts unknown where signs
    forbid the chastened lover.

    —Albert B. Casuga

  2. Back to read this for the fourth time. It’s such a distressing poem. I want to hammer on it and talk back.

    & at the same time it’s so cool and poised and almost matter-of-fact, that there’s no arguing with it. But I would, if I could.

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