Author: Luisa A. Igloria

Instead of leaving 
post-it notes on 
the mailbox, now 
you can fill in
an online form saying 
you'd like parcels 
delivered to your back 
door or left on the patio 
instead of out in front 
where porch pirates
can get to them before 
you do. A neighbor 
has nailed a sign 
to the crepe myrtle: 
Please scoop your dog 
poop. Another sends 
an email to the whole 
Nextdoor list: Please 
don't feed the raccoons. 
When wind topples 
the deck umbrellas 
and flips the tops
of trash bins open, 
even the crickets go 
quiet; the stray cats,
crows and vultures 
stay away. 

In an old story, the hero plunges
his body into a river after many
years of arduous travel; for his
purification, all the fish expire. 
His mother weeps at the casual way 
in which so much of the world 
is sacrificed in the name of 
what they call greatness. 
At dawn, even the grasses seem
to flicker in the flame of a rising
sun. The vine she planted
beside the house post on the day 
of his birth describes the two
ways chance cuts the cloth
of circumstance: the green,
waxy blade of a leaf is 
the future's bold invention; 
its speckled underside
is every wound he will have
to dress with his hands. 

i wanted mooncakes: that is to say,
round suppleness of skins slipped

around a compact handful dense 
with secret origins, thickened 

with sugar and the elaborate labor 
of bringing what you desire  

to fruition. and it is labor, this 
pulling, this stretching to curve 

a garment around a golden center 
without splitting its lip, its crust.

we think it's possible to assign
one word, one character to stamp 

like a talisman on the face we wear 
before we're fed into the fire. 

~ Maxwell's demon is a thought experiment 
created by the physicist James Clerk Maxwell 
in 1867 in which he suggested how the second 
law of thermodynamics might hypothetically 
be violated. (Wikipedia)


Imagine a demon guarding a trapdoor 
between two cells, which it opens 
as soon a fast-moving molecule 

approaches. After some time, this being
succeeds in capturing all the fast ones 
in cell B and the slow ones in cell A; 

their grouping is meant to demonstrate 
the nature of a pure state, which doesn't 
actually exist in this model, since 

the demon will have expended energy in quickly 
opening and closing that door: fifty times? 
sixty? a hundred? Though the temperature 

in one cell might have cooled and the other's 
become hot as a sauna, he'll also have 
worked up a sweat by then; rolled up 

his sleeves, unzipped his vest. Maybe 
he's ticked off at not getting that job 
promotion, at causing his wife to leave 

because of his obsessive tracking of her 
every move. In other words, the nature 
of time's arrow points from order 

to disorder; and the present 
has moved from the past to a future 
that's famously difficult to control. 

  

(John Adams Whipple, 1852)

Pale mammogram, curved
horizon emerging out of an indigo 
mist, you don't bother with time 
as a calculation mediated by glass 
plates, metal pistons, telescope 
lenses. Tonight, even stars long 
expired are swallowed again 
in silvered corridors of water. 
I swim in the oldest river there is. 
There is no lack of sorrow here, 
there is no lack of that particular
desire to never be forgotten.
But whenever I open my mouth,
only the grainy contours 
register; what I mean to say is,
love floats like a blue speck,
transient and eternal, 
through the drifting universe.   

 

I don't remember the beach 
from which we set out

in an outrigger canoe, the light 
a strobe constantly deflecting 

off the surface of water. But 
I remember the fishermen we hired 

to take us to the island, how quiet 
their wordless conversation, how 

the waves rough-slapped their salt 
against the vessel's side as we passed

and yet they steered with firm hand,
no fanfare. I have always been afraid 

of water, but here we were, entrusting 
ourselves to this passage without life 

vests, without so much as a single 
inner tube or salbabida. What is an act 

if not delineated by urgency? I can't 
speak for others, but I too am intent 

on leaving behind to reach some balance
or understanding; and mostly, arriving. 


 

According to the Tipitaka 
and other accounts, the Buddha 
was handsome, of fine appearance, 
pleasant to see, with a good 
complexion and a beautiful form... 

But there's so much divergence 
in the matter of whether he was bald 
or wore his hair in a man bun, whether 
he was clean-shaven or had a beard 
or mustache, hair being such a touchy 

subject wherever you go. Having 
too much hair or hair in the wrong
places, or conversely no hair at all; 
waxing your legs or eyebrows, never 
plucking what nature meant to grow 

in the hollows of the human
body— And where is the follicle
connecting flesh to the soul, that
luxuriant strand our grandmothers
sought as they parted our hair with

the patience of fine-toothed, bone-
handled combs? One psalm says my iniquities 
have overtaken me, they are more numerous 
than the hairs of my head; another says 
I shouldn't worry, for every hair 

on my head is already accounted for. Before
the Buddha's enlightenment, it's said he
pulled out each of the hairs from his beard
and head. If it's true we're going to come
back again and again until we finally 

get it, it could be as a phoenix eternally 
rising from the flames; as the carnival's 
bearded lady with the most marvelous strength, 
or the only unshaven suspect in the police lineup
the witness is absolutely sure wasn't the one.
 
  




 

They climb over each other in the bin—
Chesapeake blue that turn violent
orange as the water boils. But now

as the storekeeper wields a pair of tongs,
all is skittery movement, no beautiful
swimming but a clawing at the air 

during the moment of capture. 
How smooth each back looks, otherwise. 
And underneath, ridged grid like an old-

fashioned washboard; hinge that pries 
open to cell after cell of white flesh 
and rooms of brittle parchment. 

Aren't they just like us, then— 
eager to escape what's meant to be
our fate, trying to keep intact

inside the shell of our own
invisible sweetness that curdles
as soon as the enemy approaches.




 

Somewhere in the world, a body goes
through the same motions I make:

but the water I cup in my hands
when I turn on the tap  

never washes over her hands, never
touches the skin of his face. The crust

of toast I put in my mouth never grazes 
the bridge of her teeth, never tumbles 

down the dry well of his throat. I slide 
my feet into their two leather coffins, 

my arms into bright cotton casings; 
but somewhere in the world, the cold 

wraps around her throat, the rain 
lashes his limbs. How can the earth 

have so many rooms and so little 
space? Outside our windows, 

gulls lift their dusty wings; their 
shadows skim across our walls. 

When wind blows across 
the roof shingles, sometimes 
it makes the sound of a hundred
typewriter keys. The carriage 
moves from one end to the other. 
Whatever letter it was writing 
is snatched up before the ink 
has dried. No one will ever know
what it was trying to say
to you or your shadow.