Author: Luisa A. Igloria

the weird little tests that tripped me up, like: 
match the color of the egg to the kind of hen 
that laid it. Or: what would a room made of mirrors 
look like if there was nothing in the room to reflect 
except other mirrors? I agree that infinity is infinitely 
interesting, but the quiet inside that kind of question 
must be more intriguing. I had a teacher who once said: 
what you dislike so much will probably tell you more 
about yourself than the things you already know. 
Everyone has passed through childhood, everyone 
has coughed from clapping one chalky blackboard 
eraser against another. I've squirmed in my seat trying
to keep it in until the bathroom break. Music helped,
sometimes. Or another kind of mild distraction. 

the chief engineer of the War 
Department that McKinley called 
"our mapmaker." It was, he says, 
a quandary manifest, and moral, and 
entrepreneurial (by which we know 
it was just business as usual) when he
confessed he did not know what to do 
with an entire nation dropped into our 
laps after the Spanish-American war. 
And then he said,  one night late it 
came to me this way, for the sake of 
preventing anarchy and misrule. 
And lo, it was a kind of history that
almost seemed to write itself.

When you say mahal 

instead of mahal kita

you might not be aware

you've just complained

about how much it costs

to give instead of take.

the sense of having reached the limit. Or even
gone beyond. How to explain to someone else
when your basic condition is knowing you barely 
have words for things in this universe? I try to strip
the shelves of my excesses. Why did I need more
than one pen, one bottle of ink? Once, I promised
to write real letters, real postcards. Take them
to the post office for stamps. Once, this space
we took over was furnished mostly in sunlight
and dust. I know it is always too much to ask
for happiness. The ideal thing is to let it come
to you like an animal pushing a wet nose into
your palm, its breath twitchy as your own,
each of you as surprised as the other.

bold as can be. It slunk under the fence 
and circled the tree, unfazed by a patio 
full of people nearby. It wasn't even 
the beginning of summer. A blue 
moon was rising in the sky. Everything
was yet again only doing what it was
meant to do. On the radio, someone
explained the origin of the phrase
will-o-the-wisp— fleeting and 
atmospheric, fairy light, ghost 
light. If we waved a torch at 
the creature, would it retreat? 
My bones feel hollow tonight, 
and yet they pin me to the ground.
 

not really an option to consider. Rather, 
a signal it was time to move on. After all, 
what does evolved mean? Even the purely 
paleological sense points to an epoch before—
a prehistory, a myth before myth—as well as 
forward to where the past becomes buried 
as archive,  as artifact. Personally, I prefer 
deepened. The river isn't the same river 
I waded into yesterday,  last month, last year.
And it's not just the waters that have deepened 
with time. I, too, hear the thrum of flux in my chest:
all day purling new channels whose reach is beyond 
understanding. Minnows dart in the shallows.  
A night heron shifts, neck retracted like a spring. 

both beguiling and horrifying to think 
of the possibility of a second world. Blank 
as a new page or a fresh pour of plaster, 
but one  in which you could remember 
everything  about this one—and in so doing
refuse the romantic illusion of beginning 
all over again. You've made so many terrible 
choices in life, then made yourself sick in pursuit 
of pure absolution. Of course  it's the ones 
without conscience or compunction who'll say 
none of it means anything anyway. But what 
do you need another world for? Not ever after. 
Only, perhaps, what breaks in this one 
does so to help you survive every after.   

the unsaid that did us all in. A slight rain misted 
the roof and the air looked curtained in gauze. 
Was this, too, just window dressing? In every 
contract there's always some kind of fine print. 
Something to remember, next time you're invited 
to a breakfast meeting because your feedback
is important to us, and you'll have some opportunity 
for negotiation. Do you play to win, or do you win
at whatever expense? Because this could change
the likelihood you get reassigned to the smallest 
office with no window, next to the restroom. Take 
careful and complete notes. Remember what Sun 
Tzu said—subdue the enemy without fighting. Be
night and thunderbolt, wood, fire, and mountain. 

 

bright, though the moon showed only half
her face. The motion sensor lights did not
need to turn themselves on when I walked
to the bin to throw out the trash. Back inside,
I took up a pair of silver scissors and trimmed 
my husband's hair. I am capable of combing
through a thinning forest and gauging how much
to cut back. Not precision, but a steady eye and
hands that don't yet tremble. The moon loves
a landscape it can stamp with its emblems.
It must have pressed its fingers on my brow,
long ago when I was sleeping. When I woke,
my soul was steeped in the tea of its sadness.
I carry this radiance through the murky world.

a jewel of an egg, thieved by a crow out of the maple.
Small and blue, likely speckled. Tempting to say history 
is like that, gone in a flash.  Except there's no augury here, 
only inventory. There can be comfort from skipping myth 
and squarely facing the ordinary. Rilke said love the questions. 
Wait. Was't that live the questions? By which he meant come out 
sometimes from those rooms where you've locked yourself away 
like a book or a hermit or someone who merely trades their labor 
for pay. Drudge, nine-to-fiver, yes-man, hireling, hand. A friend 
told me she has a simple prayer for everything: Really, God? 
I laugh, like someone in the green shallows of a fishbowl, 
circling the cloverleaf for the hundredth time. A skylight
gleams overhead, wreathed in brambles. From endless 
listening, I think I have some knowledge of translation.