Author: Luisa A. Igloria

Beneath the leather 
covering, layers of yarn.
Double braids in red,
a hundred and eight stitches.
Aimed at the catcher and pitched.
 

On Tuesday, there was an extraordinary number
of lightning strikes. 24,453, according to our local
meteorologist. That’s a whole lot of flash-to-bang
calculations. Approximately 16.98 strikes per minute
over the course of the day. A manual count is considered
inaccurate and prone to error, but there are radiowave
and satellite sensors. I saw the maps they produced:
the carpet of stylized zap lines, like the chest emblems of
Shazam and Captain Marvel. All the way from Tappahannock
and Chincoteague down to Williamsburg, Hampton, Norfolk,
Franklin, Ahoskie, and Elizabeth City— Bolts as tightly
overlapping as the keratin scales of the pangolin, one of
the world’s most heavily trafficked wild mammals, thought
to be the source of the coronavirus. And yet, for all
the tightness of this armor, the sense that the smallest
gap is all it takes to electrify the entire field.

I don't speak the language of chiromancy
or the language of astromancy, though I know

both derive divinations by examining the maps
of the hand, or the movements of celestial 

objects through space. The month of my birth 
is September, and aster is the star flower 

assigned to it. An asterism is a group of stars, 
any one of those you might see on the ceiling 

of the night sky as they form the shapes of hunters, 
animals, domestic implements. Bear, water dipper,

belt— Emblems hang on distant limbs in the tree
of heaven. Each hides a heart or a mouth insisting

on the usefulness of light produced by bodies, despite 
the impossibility of knowing if they are still alive.   

After what seemed forever, the mind, that
ancient fish, moved slowly from the depths.

Tired of keeping its own counsel and tired of the long
winter, it remembered the pleasure of summer clouds

scattered like boats across a mirror-lake of blue,
each drifting out of sight. The mind rose to follow

in their wake, skimming through water-weeds
to get to the pale gold light coming through

little gaps above them. How warm it was near
the surface, touching the water’s skin. Stillness

was rest, until the silence became restive, became
coaxing. Until only what the heart said was audible.

I've heard it said: ask forgiveness later.
             Which means do what, exactly, beforehand?
Haven't we at one time or other wished to end
              the terrible suffering of another—a wound
beyond repair, the animal whose body crashed
              into a car in a dark country lane, the speckled
trail of blood leading into the even darker woods?
              Trespass is a word I first learned in prayer—
forgive us this thing we do, that others also do
               unto us. Haven't we gathered into our arms
the ones whose voices broke at the threshold,
               when the fence could no longer hold against
the flood? Before absolution, our bodies long
               to enter each other's grief, to gather
what can still be gathered, to stay awake or sit
               beside. Often it feels hopeless, but we
offer water.  Forage for whatever might give balm.
                 
            

"The sky is a century with no windows."
                                 ~ Eduardo Corral

We are poor though we have everything we need.
Out in the yard, the fig tree is resplendent with still-

green fruit, even while its leaves begin to speckle
and yellow toward fall. Through the laundromat window,

we see shaded clouds grow fat over the roofs. Yet they
withhold rain from the afternoon. Papery blooms multiply

on branches of crepe myrtle. They bend over the sidewalk,
threatening to crown the heads of passersby. Evening 

comes and afterward, the ordinary breathing of night. 
The bowl that breaks on the kitchen floor makes 

a chime like a bell. We sweep up its fragments and drop it 
into the trash, where glistening bones of our fish dinner 

lie almost intact. And still we want everything we do, 
though the world breaks our hearts every single time.

Our first landlady picked up cigarette 
butts thrown by the next-door neighbors 

onto the sidewalk, and tossed them
back on their deck. We knew it was time

to move when the man who bought
her building put up eviction warning

notices on the doors without asking
if the rent checks might have been

misdelivered. Another place we occupied
had no insulation. Winter was a revelation

of plastic sheets ballooning over windows.
Roof rats, water in the basement, faulty

radiators. Once, we thought the crossing
we made would be temporary. We didn't 

imagine we'd dwell in it, longer than any of
the apartments we rented in succession. 

I know I can't ask the future to declare 
itself. I boil water on the stove for tea 

and consider unwritten pages, the shape 
that remaining has pressed into the furniture. 

Not every hour is seeded with difficulty,  but 
the gods continue to collect transit tickets.

"To be scattered—
desire luminous
and in tatters—"
                  ~ Robin Coste Lewis


This same desire grows
stronger each year instead
of finally being sated—
the condition

of those like us who took
a chance and stepped across
a threshold, before understanding
how thresholds multiply, ache

following ache. The port recedes, 
and the end of the runway recedes
but the bright edge of cities
cannot eclipse the darkness.

Those who have never had
to leave think of longing 
as a bright, sure progression
toward fullness.

Those who have never been
left behind don't bend
instinctively toward
a secret wound.

A voice; the scent
of roasted corn or the oil
of oranges. Something
accordions into mirage.

I can arrange this kingdom
so it fits entirely on a teaspoon,  
float it like a petal on bath water.
At the end of the winding

mountain road, the houses
huddled together come
into view. Have I lived
everything that is 

supposed to be my life?
I am told I need to be
patient, but when was I
not patient? Rain

has trained me
to be quiet, to undertand
how even a stone can 
wear away with time. 

Still, I turn my face 
toward sunlight, toward 
what gleams with no bitterness, 
without indifference.

I wonder what it took to stay the terrible
moment of doubt, and so do the gods’ bidding?
Too many instances of sacrifice in mythology,
each a dagger entering history in the guise
of duty. But surely there was doubt? Some
small tremor before the winds of prophecy
named one daughter instead of another,
thrust her neck on a stone altar? Torn
sails mended, boats sailed through pliant
waters as if thresholds were always meant
to be marked with blood. Centuries later,
we are still saying war is the circumstance
that justifies murder. Cities burn, seas turn
their dark into a wine that erases memory.

Cream of Corn with Mashed of Chicken Soup
is what the Menu lists, among other things
like Happy Family and Husband Delight. 
And on the other laminated pages, pictures
of noodles, velvet in many variations of sauce.
A stream of people arrives through the doors,
shaking drops of water from their umbrellas.
On windowpanes facing the street, the red-
green-yellow blur of traffic lights. Think 
of a Hopper, but set in a different country—
where thick porcelain cups and plates 
sit on formica-covered tables and rice
bowls are wreathed with steam. Language
translates imperfectly, but hunger knows
the shape of soup spoons delivering 
the very thing for a night like this.