Author: Luisa A. Igloria

How strange they look, the toes 
like little knobs of ginger snapped

from the root, or like pulled out 
taffy, cooled mid-stretch. Heels,

meanwhile, thicken with calluses from
walking or running, standing in line. 

From wearing shoes made by those who don't 
seem to have any idea beyond the novel 

design. Surrender your feet to the woman 
at the pedicure place. She'll cluck 

as she lowers them into a water bath, then 
pat each one dry before sanding down things 

with a power tool— like furniture. Furnish, 
from the mid-15th century: to fit out, 

equip, provision (as in a castle, a ship, 
a person). Which is to say, what's used daily, 

over time needs some polish. From another angle, 
they resemble two narrow isthmuses side by side, 

anchoring the mainland of the body to wood floor, 
bathroom tile, sandy beach or garden plot. They turn 

into maps at the accupressurist's, who traces 
and kneads, leans hard into a spot, saying 

Liver, lung, right here! the little intestine, 
blocked. Suddenly the key fits into the lock.

A marvel, as if all this time, what you've 
always wanted to know was just under your heel. 

We write messages, put them in bottles,
cast them into space. We curate what we think 
is the best of us, or the most representative 
of us. Music played by symphonies, the one-
note hum of a sitar, a shimmering copper 
chorus of gongs, the mellow voices of poets. 
Laughter, rain and foghorns; animal calls, 
greetings in 55 languages. Who even knows 
when or whether or not future beings 
will examine our artifacts? By then, 
the oceans will long have forgotten 
our names and continents crumbled 
in the depths like soggy croutons. Still, 
we are in love with the idea that beauty 
will somehow outlast the void, 
that a billion light years from now, 
something of us might survive, even 
if only as a chord in the dust of space.

At the table next to us in the dim
sum restaurant, there's a young couple

out on a date. They lean over the menus
and toward each other, as if bringing

their heads closer will help toward
consensus. She's cute and dimpled:

hoop earrings, high ponytail bobbing 
like a friendly otter. Aura confident

as the lilt in her voice. Two smiling,
long-haired waiters circle the table: they

went to school with the girl. She claps 
her hands at their excellent suggestions— 

fantail shrimp, black mushrooms with sea 
cucumber; pan-fried noodles, turnip cake. 

They flirt, knowing exactly what they're 
doing, while the boyfriend laughs politely 

and nods his head. Carts rattle past 
like vessels bearing miracles from other 

worlds. We dip dumplings into pools of chili 
oil, ears bent to banter and conversation, 

knowing full well the performance of desire 
loves an audience. Some of us are struck 

with recognition, some pretend this 
has nothing to do with us at all.  

Even if under the surface there's always
a lot going on, my friends insist I look 
so zen— like a buddha who's trascended 
this vale of suffering, another quips. 
Which I reject, because even if the buddha
may have reincarnated into this form— my form—
the fact that I'm still here means that I'm
nowhere near nirvana. If I've managed to exude
a semblance of calm, perhaps it's because
I had a little bit of early training. For instance, 
I got nosebleeds every day until I reached third 
grade: the sudden jets of blood, the bright taste 
of copper in my throat in the middle of reading,
adding, or listening. Someone would pinch
the bridge of my nose with a wad of paper towel, 
and take me to the principal's office so I wouldn't 
disturb the classroom lesson. The surprise 
of the first time lapses a little more into 
the ordinary after each repetition. One day
something spills down the front of your white
blouse, and each day after you learn how 
to manage. Adulthood is pretty much a long
practice in composure— learning to lean
forward a little bit without panicking,
until something in the body rights itself 
and the frightening gush peters out, 
after which you clean up the mess. 

A smack of jellyfish drifts in
on the tide, translucent and pulsing 
but never second-guessing what they are
or what they can do. A crash of rhinos
doesn't tiptoe through life. A murmuration
of starlings is hundreds of bodies swerving
and dispersing at the same time with no 
script. Can we be as a flock, move 
seamlessly both alone and when we gather? 
A murder of crows rises above the trash 
bins in the parking lot. We blunder and 
snipe, hide our thoughts from ourselves 
and each other. And at night, a parliament 
of owls passes judgment from on high.  

Coming back from the dentist, half my face
still numb from the lidocaine and epinephrine
injected in my gums, I listen to a woman 
on the radio who's telling the story of 
giving birth to her baby at home. What's
remarkable is that she was around three
weeks over her due date. Her midwife
tells her to believe her body knows
what it is supposed to do, and her un-
born child too. All turns out well
in that story: a child weighing over 
ten pounds, with ten fingers and toes.
Would I have been as brave, as trusting? 
There was a time in the annals of medical 
science when it was believed babies knew 
no pain. I cringe, imagining the trauma 
and shock when they might have needed
surgery. The woman on the radio repeats, 
the body is wise and knows what to do. 
There is instinct, and there is also pain.
I know from experience the numbness
in my mouth will wear off in a few 
hours, after which I can eat and drink
but carefully, since I only have 
temporaries over my back molars.
The body is wise in many ways. But
the body breaks, can be broken.
The body also needs so much support. 
The dental assistants talk about making 
a mold for constructing the bridge 
I need. They've modeled it after 
the shape of that part of the interior 
of my mouth, a wet cave they flush dry
with air every few minutes. One shines 
her headlight over a spot that needs 
more buildup, and suctions up any 
loose material. I am told to return 
in two weeks for the delivery 
of the final product.

 
After decades of bragging I do my best
work late at night since I'm a night owl, 
how is it that I'm practically nodding 
into my plate by the end of dinner, 
wanting to straightaway brush my teeth,
wash my face, and climb under the covers?
But once I'm there and close my eyes, how 
is it that something clicks the lights on 
again in my brain and it's anything but 
calmante? A friend suggested a visualization 
exercise: think of a softly lit orb just above 
my head descending as it slowly inflates, 
humming over each part of my body until 
it reaches my feet. By that time, she said, 
you'll be sound asleep. Except before
it can glide over my chest, I'm lost 
and awake in a chain of memory-associations. 
The light becomes the crackly flash cube 
on those old cameras. My mother's ordering 
everyone back on the sofa for another picture 
because she's sure her eyes were half-closed. 
The collar of my mohair sweater is itchy. 
All I want to do is drink a cold Mirinda 
Orange soda and kick off my shoes. At Gregg's, 
she chose them because they were shiny patent 
leather; maybe she felt she needed to get me 
something, just because she bought two pairs 
of pumps for herself. My mother knew she wasn't 
born with any kind of spoon in her mouth— 
she had to figure out how to get to everything 
she wanted, even if it meant staying up late 
to sew frothy dresses for wealthy matrons 
and their homely daughters, and praising 
how they looked when they came for fittings. 
She had natural style, though, and could pull
off any outfit. She knew what top to match 
with what pencil skirt without looking exactly 
like the secretaries in my father's office. Now
I'm lying in my darkened bedroom, in my head 
trying to compose tomorrow's outfit. She never 
let me wear jeans until I got to college, but now 
I wear them even when I teach: dark wash, cuffed 
at the hem, or sporting visible mending stitches 
I made with bright embroidery thread. I like to wear
low boots and throw on my most unstuffy blazer, aim 
for a look that says confident and put together, 
but not trying too hard. I've also become 
a woman who has to work hard for what she 
wants, including the sleep I crave so much.   

Some say I am light-
ning when I write, sure 
of the strike and the burn. 
Brilliance seen for miles 
around, but is it only for 
the space of a few seconds?

The accretions of language
through the years, flint
cobbled from the silt and 
mud of this life. Sentences
honed through practice—
this requires patience. 

This is not an ode 
to the ways in which 
certain hothouse plants  
bloom only one night each 
year— a grand display, 
followed by sad withering.  

Neither is this praise
for steadfastness or obscurity,
for holding still against 
a background, like the velvet
of moth wings melting against 
warm screens of bark.  

And this isn't mere 
argument for importance and
various other bold announcements 
of self— not to be the sun, but   
to have proof my small heat matters 
and emits a real radiance of its own.

Fragile and momentary, we continue,
waking to the pull of breath at dawn.
Outside, the world begins to dress in light. 
So many small forms of hesitation: the way 
the kettle on the stove somehow doesn't sit 
completely within the burner's circle, 
and so the water takes longer to shrill. 
Last night's rain still lines the undersides 
of leaves, and the lamps on the street have not 
yet gone out. I am  always standing in the in-
between, one hand folded around a dream, the other 
raised toward the shape of a decision. My ear 
turning toward the last place it remembers
an animal once stopped for water. 

The body doesn't e[r]ase or quiet  
immediately or of its own accord. 

It is a town with nerve [ending]s 
all lit up through the night, 

windows shaded, doors bolted shut
against wind or animals that howl

at the slightest noise. The body
is an archive of what tightened

the knots along its spine, what
made the jaws clench to [w]ire 

as if in place. Once there was
a bird which feathered the rooms

inside the chest, before it hid then
flew through the bars of the ribs. 

The body takes notes, keeps score. 
In its fortress it pours stones 

instead of water into jars. It knows
it needs to unlearn construction

and defense, to practice compos[t]ing
instead of ruthless accounting. 

The field that flinched from fire
passing through learns that green 

grows again. The shoulders soften
and the bird returns. The lake where

the body floats is still dark, but warmer 
and looser now on the back of the neck.