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.