Noon Prayer

May our burdens lighten, may the day
lift shadows from the ground like leaves
caught in a summer wind, before they

lengthen; may the strip of cheap
colored foil twirling in the branches
bring wings and lost bird voices; may the ant

shouldering a crumb of bread find his way
by dusk; may a hand reaching for something to dip
into a cup of coffee come across the half-moon

floating like an abandoned biscuit in the sky.


In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Series Navigation← TurningAcompañamiento →

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.

4 Replies to “Noon Prayer”

  1. …may a hand reaching for something to dip/into a cup of coffee come across the half-moon/floating like an abandoned biscuit in the sky.


    Wish this upon that wasted waif
    reaching for a cob of corn on a cold
    night among the lean-to shelters.

    Pray for this as hard as you can
    before the scorching desert claims
    his little body back among debris

    of sticks, stones and bones dimly lit
    by fluttering fire from stoked ember,
    frying the flies gleaned from holes

    hiding them in the crannies of boxes
    left by a howling army of thieves
    absconding with the relief supply.

    A border guard sips freshly brewed
    coffee from his tin cup, cocks his
    rifle at its ready-to-fire 45-degree,

    sneers at the child’s shaking body
    in the arms of a tremblingly bony
    hand of its mother begging for tea

    or a tad of coffee, a balm for a cold
    night at the gobi, where a half-moon
    floats like a half-eaten biscuit in the sky.

    —Albert B. Casuga

Leave a Reply

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