I’ve turned the bird of my inmost longings
loose into the ether. It used to sit in a cage

of sinew and leather, its red singing
voice muffled beneath the hum

and chirr of turning gears. It visited
all the dreams I could no longer

remember— How did I know?
I knew, because it left the smallest

of teardrop shapes, tiny salt
chandeliers encrusted on the pillow.

At noon, its unsung arias begged
to be pried open: they swelled,

round-hipped and brown, like figs,
ripe; like rosewood hips of a cello.

They begged to be pried open,
marbled to liquid in a throat drenched

by sun. And so I let it be. I’ll keep
the green branch on which it roosts,

should it return. I’ll learn to live on
this door’s swinging hinge,

sustain on flimsy hope. Because I
love it so, I’ll let it take its leave of me.

Luisa A. Igloria
11 10 2011

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

One Reply to “Aria”


    Should it return, I will be there by the sill
    peering through drawn curtains, letting
    the wind play with the chimes firmly hung
    on its path. I need to be warned before I
    open the door on its now rusty hinges; I
    must appear unexpectant, must not look
    surprised nor fazed, but gently regal even
    as I welcome it back: You are home, love,
    and your perch is still green like you never
    left it. If you must go again, pray leave
    the hinges swinging, you won’t take long,
    would you? I could plan on it. But, will you?

    — Albert B. Casuga

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