Author: Luisa A. Igloria

“To see and be seen
is to be taken prisoner.” ~ D. Bonta

The mother hands her child a sandwich and some change before putting him on the bus. Don’t talk to strangers. But if you must, be unfailingly polite. Look them in the eye but not for very long.

*

Marble and gold, pillar or stone. In the circular building, cells arranged around an outer wall, around the single tower. Network of tubes for extending the work of inspection.

*

We will raise our placards, light candles, and walk in a solemn circle around the square. We have our permit to peacefully organize and protest. Of course we know we will be watched.

*

Along one side of the street, lamp-posts festooned with the faces of missing children and animals. Every help number begins with 1-800. Infinity and many zeros.

*

One summer, I ached to see the row of grandfathers who’d tethered themselves to the White House fence. Veteran does not only mean one who has served in the war, but also a person with long experience: old hand, past master, doyen.

*

In fall after Rodney King was beaten, mother sewed a winter coat for me. She sighed and wished I did not have to go to America, this land of violence and burning storefronts.

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Third person point of view: I do not understand how people you don’t even know can talk about you as if you weren’t right there, as if they think you must be deaf or do not understand English.

*

From the bridge we can see the spill of neighborhoods. We don’t talk about the blueness of the water and the stillness of wading birds. You tell me how everywhere you walk now, your nape prickles: the aura of the constantly surveilled.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Proverbial (10).

you can hear the struggle to breathe, you can intuit the instance of the body’s anticipation of the viral load, of the impact of what is ultimately coming. If you stop for just a moment to admit I don’t want to die before my time then life and what follows after becomes a ritual of self-care. In unbounded space we were bound and tripped up in entanglements; for this is what passes as history. How long have we held our breath? If you listen you can hear the struggle to breathe, to say the unsayable in bounded space. The woman who was speaking said, find the pocket of flesh between the shoulder and the jaw. Cradle the elbow of the arm as it burrows into that hidden space, looking for the pain of tenderness. I say yes when I want the taste of the bud more than the clay. Even the dead trees of winter want to return to life. They have not yet hoisted their banners but the assault is on its way.

In the early hours,
still dark, I hear them;

and their plaintiveness,
also dark. They settle

the little gashes
of their talons,

question marks
on my shoulder.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Owl.

“Here is deep memory’s lure, and sheltering” ~ Susan Howe

3

I like the soft grey nets
that rise in the pockets
of the laundry machine,
the hint of damp

mingled with the smell
of soap and water, knowledge
of the laved and clean
already transforming.

“Where a thought might hear itself see.” ~ Susan Howe

2

Is it still there, the park with the circle swings and rusted see-saws, the slides whose curves made gravity seem denser, the stone elephants looking into the distance without seeing? Rowboats drift on the water, couples pass beneath the arms of willows. If you lean out over the wooden pier, the wind might bring the murmur of voices. Flakes of paint might come off in your hands from the railing, the way the rough bark of some trees has a soft underside— like an old language struggling to come back to life.

To guard the eye
from too much brightness, they poured
water into a silver basin: and in that lake,
the sun was allowed to cross itself
before fading out of view.

You who came in the middle of winter
and lit a match to hold a flame
in your cupped hands—

only a cleared space remains
where you stood, looking out
over the frozen fields.

 

In response to Via Negativa: End of winter.