Author: Luisa A. Igloria

the dock they'd push off from when they thought
they were finally good and ready;

the template against which they might model
a life, if not a tiny waistline;

the listening post for their sorrows, the one
to approve their fashion and life choices; 

the one who knew not to comment
on the tattoos, the nose and eyebrow piercings;

the one to empty and make do
until empty could apparently be more empty.

Absorb what heat transfers to stone. Grate
        bricks of salty cheese, eat leftover red velvet

cupcakes though you know you'll be sorry you
       did, afterwards. Nearly halfway through the. year,

every celebration's too quickly gone. Time scatters
       feathers so recklessly on the grass, then flies away.

Grief, on the other hand, hunches in an armchair, 
       heavy-hipped. It hasn't moved in weeks, is sorely

in need of a shower. You try not to pay it any mind,
       just going about your day. Without warning, it

keens under its breath, bursts into tears. Sometimes it
      looks and sounds like a child that wants soothing.

Marvel at its persistence, its certainty you'll eventually
      need to do something about it. Something real, that is.

Only a fool would give it everything. If a venomous snake 
       perched on your windowsill, would you offer it your neck?

Quagmires and quicksands, all the world's hidden hazards,  
       ready to test the trusting traveler. You read books

simply to pass the time, not necessarliy to find happiness 
      though it seems possible. Could you really be happy 

under cloud banks, haze of smog; prospects of becoming fully
      vested still a question mark in your mind? Context:

when you arrive at a certain age, every scenario's
      xeriscape is minimalist—conserving moisture. You

yearn at times for the lushness of landscape, indisputable
      zest before amor mundi turned into love-as-memory.
 

Remember when you leave the room, 
you off the light. You also off the TV.
The milk in the ref is bad now. 
But if you keep drinking coffee you will stop growing.
Don't eat so much ice cream. You will always catch colds.
I don't know why you call it pins and needles.
I am not a pin's cushion.
When there is that feeling in my feet
it is the devil squeezing.
The way to cure it is to spit on your finger
and make the sign of the cross on top of it.
Then the devil freezes. He cannot move.
If you are eating and I have to leave the house,
you must turn your plate to the right
and again to the right. Make a complete circle.
Like you are driving a car. 
That way I won't meet an accident.
I will teach you how to measure a cloth
to make sure it fits you 
without going in the fitting room.. 
You take the waist, one in each hand, 
and fold it around your neck, 
like you are choking yourself 
but not really choking. 
It will fit well, you will see. 
You have to thank me that I did not eat 
many eggplants when you were 
in my stomach. See, your pwet is smooth 
and has no shadow, no dark blue color.
See that moth on the orchid plant?
Don't sneeze. That is your dead
grandfather coming to visit.

A pair tiptoe-fly across the soft dark, then do 
a kind of running jump, landing on the cow's nape.

What does it feel, or does it feel at all; or is it mostly
unbothered? It only shakes its head a little, tethered

as it is to the fence, when they begin their blood-
feast. St. Augustine wrote, Inhabit, and you shall be

inhabited. Dwell, and you shall be dwelt in.* You could
call it love, this investment in another; this shared

appetite for what sustains life. But the bats are only 
being true to their nature. If they lick each others' mouths, 

it's precious currency rather than a  kiss: not ardor 
but a social bond. It's posible to languish from a lack 

of love, even die of a broken heart. In many accounts, 
the lovestruck sport a pallor akin to being drained of blood. 




(*Sermon on Love, 10)

Salt over a shoulder, smudged chalk circle; 
           not a single idle breach in an hour,
lest the devil be encouraged to come 
          out and do his work. But there are 
days when hate spills out of every mouth,
          every email; doors stick, the roast
burns, a scammer makes off with your
          down payment. A dead bird lands 
on your doorstep, the ceramic spoon rest 
          bursts into broken pieces. Time 
to restart the day, close your eyes to what 
         wants to pull you down until the air feels
cold and honest, until only what you love
        runs its hands through your hair again. 

My friend says she comes from a line of people who are always trying 
to make sure their backs are covered. By which she doesn't mean 
covered with a raincoat or cardigan or a dinner jacket. I understand 
what she's saying, for I come from a line of people who are always 
looking over their shoulder to make sure no one is about to drive 
a blade in the semilunar space made by the lower curve of the left lung, 
the front edge of the spleen, and the arch formed by sinews of the false 
ribs. We are always preparing for the expected unexpected, always
reminding ourselves not to give everything away, not to think we
are ever home free or no longer under brilliant surveillance. Of course 
we want to be loved, to be given the same options to choose from 
just like others. To be able to speak of excitements and amazements
without being mistaken for hysterics or heathens. Once, at a show,
we caught a glimpse of magicians stuffing their elbow-patched sleeves 
with squares of knotted silk. Nevertheless, we roared with applause
from our seats in the audience as they pulled out color after color, 
ending with the flourish of a living bird. 

Who are we to point
out the false logic, the trick, against
the cruelty of sawing a body in half?

Not all frauds are equal. Some frauds
are exceedingly good at being frauds 
and keeping the appearance of a perfectly
dependable, reasonable human being. 
They are polite to a fault, having cultivated
a demeanor that's a cross between maitre d'
and mansplainer—someone only looking
out for your best interests. On the other hand, 
the frauds who are terrible at being frauds 
wear their pompousness and idiocy 
loud like fancy pantaloons and orange hair. 
A tin facsimile of night sky is more convincing—
holes punched with nails cannot help
but leak light from the nearest source.

When the medical technician bends to tighten 
the tourniquet around your upper arm before jabbing
you with the needle and swiveling the collection vials
in place, you see the small, faded tattoo on the left 
side of her neck. You ask if it hurt when she got it, 
since everyone always has an opinion on whether 
it hurts more in the bony parts than in the fleshy parts. 

She doesn't remember. She was 17, did lots of crazy shit. 
But she'd do it again, has done it again—she shows you 
the newest ink on her right wrist, a scroll of letters 
and vines. The Buddha said that pain is inevitable, 
but suffering optional. In the Buddha's parable,
you're walking in a forest; an arrow comes 
whistling through the trees and hits you. 

But the story doesn't say where—shoulder? 
chest? hip? leg?—or why, or whether you shriek
as you fall to the ground like a rag doll impaled. 
You are definitely in pain. But wait, it doesn't
end there. Your unseen assailant aims a second
time in your direction. Because the first arrow
has jolted your senses to high alert, lucky you

can dodge the second. The Buddha explained
that life (not a ninja, though it does creep up on you) 
deals out the first arrow. The second arrow is your 
reaction to the first. He says it's optional: it's the way 
you choose to react, thus opening yourself to more 
pain and suffering. You're not convinced 
the analogy works well. Were you asking for 

that second arrow, or even the first? If you knew 
you were a walking bull's-eye for arrows or some 
other instrument of pain, wouldn't you run and hide 
behind a boulder or burrow into a log? The med tech 
touches the side of her neck, thinking that it must have 
hurt a little. But she chose to have it done—the low hum
of those needles bringing to life the design she chose.

It's early April. Only a few more days
till the day when the Moon, passing 
between the Sun and Earth, 
completely blocks the face of the Sun.  

The heavens will darken 
as if it were dawn or dusk. 
The heavens will darken ominously 
as if it were the beginning or end of time.

According to geoscientists, 
tidal stress increases during a new 
moon, a condition associated with 
a total solar eclipse.  

With all these constellations
of planetary and other movement,
tsunamis could be spreading 
right now through tectonic plates.

We're warned not to turn
our eyes directly toward the Sun.
It could burn earthquakes 
right into our brains.

Instead, we look into its reflection 
on viewing mirrors. The very trees learn
how to break it apart into hundreds 
of bright thumbnails on the ground. 

We found a coffeetable
at a thrift store, joyful 
that it was heavy, of solid
wood. Only a few 
nicks here and there.
A hutch 
came later—we marveled
at the way plain glassware
twinkled when a tiny light
was activated.
The rooms filled
with pictures,
gifts of books and 
ancient bows and arrows;
a staff carved from hard-
wood and smoked 
in fire on a Tibetan
mountain. 
Though now we need to,
I still can hardly give 
away the surpluses—
every drawer crammed
with dreams 
of habitation.
Those years ago,
I remember 
when we carried
a long, boxed mirror
between us up
the apartment steps.
It was Halloween; 
people handed out sweets
from their porches and
joked about how maybe
we might have packed
a body in there.