Postscript

Watching as the automaton
sketched lines across a sheet
of art paper, I wondered
what messages I might send
from the hereafter—
Even the dead elm tree
still glows pale green,
grey bark hosting small
bits of incandescence.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Series Navigation← ClearingImprovisation →

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.

2 Replies to “Postscript”

  1. POST POSTSCRIPT

    If leaving were easy and found myself
    in a hereafter, I might find these words
    for you (if thoughts and our pillow-talk
    could still cut through the walls-on-walls
    of dark nights and blank sheets stiffened
    into cold knife-edged shields guarding
    against our talking to each other again):

    “Leave the window open, let the branch
    grow close to it, you will find me there
    scrambling among bridges of moonlight,
    starlight, sunlight, even flickers from your
    turned-down lamps, singing those little
    songs I always sang to keep the fine rhythm
    of my pats on your thighs, caresses to put
    you to sleep on warm nights you thought
    were not made for slumber or some such.”

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