Author: Luisa A. Igloria

(an emoji poem)

If small insects like the jeweled 
ladybug sent out a cry for help,
would you hear it? You remember a nursery
rhyme from childhood about a king who stuck
a fork into his dessert, releasing four and 
twenty blackbirds baked in a pie. But if they
were truly baked and done for, they wouldn't
be able to fly out of their tomb of shortcut
pastry, would they? And since they began
to sing in chorus, they must have had nine
lives or there was some wizardry involved— 
the type that sets off snare drums, broomsticks 
falling briskly in line to empty trash bins 
and carry buckets of water. What padlocked 
the doors to bewilderment and surprise in your
blood and held up a stop sign every time you saw 
a swan and recalled tales of transfiguration?
The snake doesn't whisper Sit in the corner 
like a good child. In that kind of story, it urges 
you to take a big bite out of the shiny apple, bets 
you could steal cheese from a mousetrap or filch 
a smoke without being caught. People have lost big 
in TV shows where the host asks you to choose between
wads of money or a taped-up mystery box containing...
what exactly? Perhaps you are the insect— just a small
creature, and not large as allegory like the one 
in a Kafka story. You do your everyday things: fry
and eat an egg for breakfast, swim a couple of laps 
at the gym, dutifully take out the recycling.
You squint up at the fading light one evening, 
and remember how in your teens you really wanted 
to learn the bass guitar, rack up enough
points to join the local Mensa club, or train
as a long-distance runner if not for being flat-
footed. No, none of those, to your dismay. 
But the voice of some wise sage says in your ear
that it's alright. Neither you nor the barnyard
creatures nor the bright blue Morpho butterflies
nor the earthworms churning up the soil older
than all of us necessarily need saving all the time. 
Your daughter texts you to say that one day, when she 
took her second-grader to the park, she was feeling 
so burned out from work. She joined him on the slides
a couple of times, and felt a little better. 
You tell her— next time they visit, you'll drop 
everything you're doing so you can go to the teahouse 
you enjoyed so much the last time, to drink oolong, 
eat finger sandwiches, popcorn chicken, and scones. 

"...on Nov. 5 ... doctors in the Philippines 
have documented the case of a woman 
whose armpits leak milk."  (Reddit)


 
In 1847, Russell & Sturgis acquired tax-free
rights to carry 250 tons of ice on the frigate
Hizaine to Manila, variously called the Pearl
of the Orient or the Rome of the East, or
more recently the armpit of the world for its 
urban blight and overpopulation. In the 1800s, 
blocks of ice were harvested from creeks and lakes 
in deep winter, then covered with sawdust or hay 
for insulation in ice houses. The great Banquet 
of Malolos celebrating Philippine independence 
in 1898 flaunted a European-inspired menu, 
as if to show the world the newly formed 
nation was as civilized as others in the West.
Seven appetizers, seven courses and four desserts—
oysters, shrimp, stuffed crab and buttered radishes; 
cold ham with asparagus, cheeses, jams, leche flan
del mar and mantecado— ice cream! The milk was likely
coconut or carabao milk, and of course it needed
to be kept cold. Any milk, including breast milk, 
spoils when overexposed to heat. Bacteria convert
lactose into acids. Fermentaton thickens into 
a moist and foamy surface spackled with curds.   

Spray-painted white, a tangle of driftwood hangs from 
the ceiling. 

It moves when a breeze comes through the door. 

Underneath, a table with pitchers of water, glasses, napkins. 

Tinkle of wind-chimes in the neighbor's garden.

Foghorns cutting through the blinds.

How many people are out in a storm tonight, as waves 
crest barriers and flood waters rage down boulevards?

Images flicker on my screen.

I remember a bus ride through towns in the aftermath of 
volcanic eruption— courtyards half-buried in lahar, 
the statues of saints spackled with mud.

Centuries after Pompeii was buried in ash, the shapes 
of corpses lying side by side came to light. 

Scientists determined they were a man and a child.
They had no relation to each other. 

I had a couple of intricately beaded necklaces.
One of them was a gift, years ago, from my eldest child.
When I looked at what I had in the drawer, I couldn't remember
which one was bought by me, and which was a gift from another.

I gave one to the giver, who felt hurt I didn't remember,
more than that I was returning the gift. The mind's like that:
forgets the details, though archives are kept by the heart.
It's only one of many faults for which I must atone. 

One was a gift, years ago, from my eldest child.
Giving something back, the hurt is that I didn't remember. 
One was bought by me, one was a gift from the other.
That the gift was returned, her mind found unfathomable.

I mailed it back to her, and she was hurt I didn't remember. I might
have forgotten details, but isn't what the heart keeps what matters?
I returned the gift, but not out of spite. My mind isn't that kind of stupid.
And yet it's only one of many things for which I must atone.

I may have returned the gift, but I know it wasn't out of spite.
When I looked at what I had in my drawer, I only saw too much.
Perhaps it's only one of many faults for which I must atone.
Once, I ran my hands over two intricately beaded necklaces.

Grief can ripple, expanding outward in concentric circles.
After my father-in-law died, my mother-in-law said she was ready.
My mother thought the same thing after my father passed away.
She started wearing his favorite shirts when she went out.

After my father-in-law died, my mother-in-law said she was ready.
Remembering this makes me want to do an inventory of my closets.
My mother would wear his favorite shirts when she went out.
My mother-in-law passed less than 5 years after her husband did.

Sometimes when I look in my closets, this is what I remember.
My mother died 43 years after my father breathed his last.
My mother-in-law died less than 5 years after her husband passed.
Mother's ashes are in an urn, in a columbarium called Heaven's Gate.

Mother died 43 years after my father left this world.
After my father passed away, she said her time was probably soon.
Her ashes are in an urn, in a columbarium called Heaven's Gate.
Grief is ripplng outward still, moving in concentric circles. 
 

Bands wider than the breadth of a country, eye
of a terrible angel thrown from heaven.

It wheels with pure intention as a torch
fanned into flame.

Landfall, they write of vessels catching
sight of a shore; or a rocky berth after months
of drifting through space.

What falls is water and not earth, though earth
in all its forms roils in its passage.

In our myths, the first man is not Adam (in transliteration, Adán).

In our myths, a bird with many colors swooped down from heaven
and pecked on a bamboo growing on the riverbank.

In those myths, the first man and woman stepped out 
of the stalk— one of them strong, one of them beautiful.

In those myths, we were not allowed to imagine which of them
had these traits; in a manner of speaking, these were
assigned at birth.

In our myths, origin stories are a way of giving you a universe
that you did not design.

But in our myths, there is a prior world just under the first
layer of story; if it did not author itself, it must
have been imagined by someone.

In those myths, we are not yet even a speck on the sea
although when you think about it, these are secondary origin
stories— there was already a river, a riverbank, a bamboo tree, 
perhaps one of many in a grove.

In our myths, the gods are many, and fickle, and not
always right. 

In one of those myths, the baker-god tries to get the recipe
right. But first there are experiments. He underbakes, or overbakes,
until the last batch is just right— that one explains the brown
color of our skin. 

In our myths, we are always needing to prove ourselves worthy
of the blessing.

In those myths, goodness wears a certain stance, lives 
by a certain code, has a destiny waiting that it did not 
choose for itself.

 
My father liked to say, an apple a day keeps the doctor away.
But we lived in a country where apples were imported, not grown.
Under their waxy skins "Red Delicious" apples tasted like sawdust.
My father grew up on fish and rice in a sleepy town by the sea.

We lived in a country where apples were imported, not grown.
In fall, among bins of Gala and Honeycrisp, I recall his belief in apples—
my father, who was raised on fish and rice in a sleepy town by the sea.
I like Braeburns, Sugarbees, and Fujis— more bright than tart.

In fall, among bins of Gala and Honeycrisp, I recall his belief in apples.
Someone taught me how to find the star in the middle of an apple.
They're more bright than tart, so I like Braeburns, Sugarbees, and Fujis.
Cut them horizontally and you'll see: not all stories of apples are true.

Someone taught me I'd find a star in the belly of an apple.
Under their waxy skins, "Red Delicious" were porous as sawdust.
Cut apples horizontally and see how not all apple stories are true
though my father liked to say an apple a day keeps the doctor away.
   

(a cento)

Now the sack of sugar.

                                               That dark
energy I longed for but could not name.

Each line and curve of recollection's architecture

fronds of palmyra, the stalled clock

inside, something like home

the poker, shovel, and staw broom beside

the rosary on the bumper, 

drifting through its days, learning how to be ordinary.

How can I resurrect it now— this love I've had in all my past lives?


Source Texts:
"Self Portrait in Granulated Sugar," David Hernandez;
"I Was Lt. Uhura," January Gill O'Neil; "In Antipolo,
You Can Find a Museum," Ethan Chua translating Abner
Dormiendo; "The Brainfever Bird, Confused by Seasons,"
Tishani Doshi; "Going Home," Myes Poydras; "The Last
Catalogue," Austin Allen; "The Holy Sacrament of
Repression," Katie Condon; "The Dream Incarnate,"
Nay Thit; "Mira Should Have Known Better," Mirabai
translated by Chloe Martinez

(a cento)


Imagine where you cannot be.

                           Some
days, I lay in the morgue
of darkness, hyper-alone,

Put out my eyes: and I shall see you, too,

                                            Loving it all 
to its silky death. to its silty bottom. to its graywater demise. 

So the constellation through negation, since we’re stuck with night.

                   I give 
the world my worn-out breath 
on an old tune, I give 
it all I have 
and take it back again.


Source texts:
"One Way to Ressurect an Ancestor," CM Burroughs;
"I begin the day thinking," Taylor Byas; "Put Out 
My Eyes," Rainer Maria Rilke; "There are inanimate 
things out there loving each other," francine j. 
harris; "Note on Method," Jeffrey Pethybridge;
"Breath," Philip Levine