In front of a cloud
of blossoming mountain laurel,
a deer: the flash of her tan coat
passing quicker than a kiss farewell—

Always, you travel ahead. And yet
you’ve cast your shadow everywhere:
even here in the river shallows,
refracted in the volatile colors of fish
swimming from the brutal heat of day.


In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Series Navigation← VespertineParable →

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.

One Reply to “Mirage”


    They are not there. Wherever you find them,
    they will not stay. Let them go, but keep
    their mark. Quicker than a farewell kiss,
    they run ahead of you and hope to throw
    you another one from the shadowy depths
    of yearning, of longing, of needing really.

    With sunrise, does not the claw-like
    shadow of the primrose stigma recede?
    It is the yellow blossom turns the path
    into a sparkling trail that will not be there
    when darkness shrouds the valley. Touch
    and go. They will not be there, these
    songs you scarcely hear from this distance.

    And your vesper question? What lessons on
    grasping and letting go do these things
    teach you? You cannot hold them down.
    But they will haunt you until you learn
    how to summon them when you need
    memories to touch your face caressingly.

    —Albert B. Casuga

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.