Author: Luisa A. Igloria

        With our little nephew, in December 
we cut out dozens of paper snowflakes 
               and taped them to the front windows. 
Where he lives, they get real snow 
        in winter— like, more than seven inches, 
whereas we on the coast are lucky to get 
               a dusting. I was today years old when I 
remembered, after rereading Dante, 
        that the lowest circle of hell is not 
actually a blazing inferno but a frozen  
               tundra where hundreds of sinners 
are buried up to their necks in ice.  
         And the coldest of them is Satan, of course— 
having fallen from such a great height, he caused 
               such rapid cooling in the atmosphere 
which followed him into the deepest circle of hell.
         There he is, the central cooling system where 
the sun never shines, beating gigantic bat-like wings.
               Hell must be anywhere or anytime you feel
stuck without sight of reprieve— Thinking about that
         makes my heart constrict. Water bubbles dropped
on ice, swirling with crystal dendrites and fern frost,
               are sharp with beauty at the edge of grief.       

            after sixty is like when a poet of a certain
age is told they shouldn't expect to have work
       picked up by the hottest magazines or
journals, or land in those Best of...
            lists. My muscles are fine, 
thank you. I appreciate both the power
       of restraint and the joy of 
spontaneity, the frisson of a seductive
            opening (perhaps like the title  
of this poem). Once, I entered an epic-
       poem writing competition, mostly
from irritation; some male poets I knew 
            were going on and on about how
it was all a matter of length and 
       endurance. Really. I scoffed. I could  
tell you about endurance, and about how sexy
            is perhaps one of the most 
misunderstood of qualities we like to lob
       around in this late-twenty-first-
century-nearing-apocalypse period. I've heard
             that Barrel Woman is one variation of
the carved Barrel Man souvenir sold to tourists
       in the Cordillera: instead of a phallus, 
breasts spring out to titillate. Scholars say this 
             is really a product of colonization, 
since indigenous sensibility saw no shame in going 
       around clad only in loincloths and woven 
skirts. Back in the nineteenth century, we 
              were seen only as dark and exotic.
From there, connect the dots. How many times  
       have we walked unblinking past catcalls and  
Hey, ma-GAN-da ka (accent totally on the wrong 
               syllable)? In 1565, Spanish explorers  
thought Syquijor island was on fire; it was the light
        from clouds of fireflies in the molave 
trees. It's said the slightest look or brush 
               of a hand while walking in the town
could mean hex or enchantment. That's sexy.

            The crossword clue was small 
instrument, seven letters. Eventually 
      it led to pianino, which I've never 
heard before but apparently is the mid-
            eighteentth century forerunner of 
the upright piano. Sometimes I think of how  
      my life might be different, if my parents 
had their way and trundled me off to conservatory
            though every now and then, they'd sigh
Musicians always eat last. I didn't like 
      the idea of hours-long daily practice, 
for a performance opportunity that might never 
            materialize— I mean, I knew even then 
I was no prodigy. People talk about enjoying 
      the process and not the goal; so it was 
good to hear the great Yuja Wang say on BBC 
           television, I kind of want the goal 
without the process. Hard to believe, when she's
      powering through three hours of Rachmaninov 
on a concert stage with her pixie haircut, 
           five-inch stilettos, sparkly thigh- 
and shoulder-baring outfits. I will never be 
      a Yuja Wang. Instead, for the last 
forty-plus years I've been teaching students
           how to read poems and stories. I live
in a house with far too many books and not enough 
      counter space. The backyard is a scraggly
mess, and raccoons have tried to stake a claim
           on the southwest corner by the fence  
for a communal bathroom. But from June to August,  
      the lone fig tree shakes out its lushest  
green dress beaded with so much fruit you wouldn't  
           believe. It may not know it, but it gives  
me so much joy all summer long, this thing I had  
      no hand in bringing to life, this thing I
can have no quarrel with enough to say I am done
           with everything, and I am done with you.

"Truth should sting, in its way,
like a major bee, not a sweat bee."
                   ~ Diane Seuss


      And so I can totally relate when I read  
             the transcript of an NPR feature on familial
estrangement my husband sends me. I too feel 
      blindsided. I still don't have a clear idea 
about why exactly my eldest child won't talk
             to me or to the rest of the family. No doubt 
this is intentional. It doesn't feel like 
      a momentary tantrum. It's been months. No,
a year, more than a year. I'm not looking
             for epiphanies. This is not a narrative
poem nor even a confession. As young people say
      these days, It's not always about you. I'm not 
even sure it's absolution I want or need. I've been 
             stung over and over, none of this 
necessarily easier with time. Who are we kidding? 
      I doubt it, but perhaps I'm past the age of rue. 
Rue, from the Greek root reuo, which means to set free 
             besides to regret. Whoever said Absence 
makes the heart grow fonder is a charlatan of  
      the lowest order. I'm not interested in knowing blue 
hyacinths, tulips, orchids, and lily of the valley 
             mean apology, but I can't not care. What
do I know anyway? I say sometimes; I'm only ___. 

Just like you, I too
           pine after what I thought 
I had, or used to have (as if
      they were mine to have, 
in the first place). But
           it isn't uncommon, this desire
to look back anyway at the places
      that have spit us out, perhaps
even said in so many ways Don't
           come back or I want nothing more
to do with you. The Greeks said
      nostos, meaning home; and algos,
meaning the pain and grief of 
           homesickness. In between the two
might be weather, or fighting, or leaving;
      and before that, the crimson and green
leaves of poinsettia cutting the cold
           northern air. I read the wrought
iron embossing on barbers' chairs, gold-
      brushed, where my father went for shaves
and haircuts— Koken, 1901, St. Louis, 
           U.S.A.— and knew they too 
would furnish the interiors of my nostalgia,
      years before I moved away. The floors
there are sticky with red carnauba paste wax,
           buffed to a high shine with half
a coconut shell; and the old rooms carry
      a whiff of naphthalene, violets, and
eucalyptus pastilles. I have no letters
           held together with a bit of ribbon
or old lace, and whatever pictures there were
      have turned to ash in fire. I only have
what I have now, which is flimsy and 
           not a lot. Sometimes, French
medical manuals from the 1700s described
      languishing soldiers; how nostalgie
could be as fatal as a wound. It is winter
           where I am, and on the other coast
fires burn everything in their path. What
      do we own, what do we carry but 
a catalogue of what we think we have and
           the enormity of what we no longer have.

"See what a comma can do?" ~ Diane Seuss


If I write about the past
as I often (I always) do,
whether or not I intend a narrative, 
narrative is inferred, and in this way
not even any number of pauses (lyrical 
or grammatical) can dispel the myth
of connection, a tissue that persists
through the muscular roadway of anecdotes
littered with random facts, the colored 
fog of feeling and the leap from event 
to causation isn't my doing but just 
the way the mind does its thing, so if A 
and B are next to C it doesn't matter 
they're discrete, that time in 1965 
and that other time in 1980 and 
yesterday the tune that came on
when I turned on the car radio,
no, not the one I imagined I wanted
played at my funeral though I once
thought I knew, so I guess it's not
all up to me that the story of a story
persists, though here we all are
making it up as we go along—
 

At the farthest end of the kaleidoscope, 
prisms tilt toward each other at an angle.

This is one way a few gathered shards
multiply: along the river walk, ten 

tall cypress trees become twenty 
tall cypress trees, vivid green 

mirrored in water. Like secret histories, 
an infinity of patterns expands with each 

rotation. Fractals of ice, tendrils 
of fire; letters of unknown alphabets 

resembling their plain selves before 
receding again into mystery. There doesn't 

seem to be an end to what light can do, 
even with all these broken pieces.  

Song sparrow, house sparrow— 
do your names ever get mistaken 

for sorrow? With your chestnut 
brown or your grey cap, you fly

in and out of the eaves, forage
in the dirt. One of you sings, 

tireless, through the year. One 
of you hops on the ground then 

tucks your bill beneath your 
feathers. I don't know the meaning

of the sounds you make— a few phrases 
ending with a trill, a series of chirrups  

— but I don't hear the sound of grief
or wounding until I myself am sad.
 

I am scoured clean, Lord. 
I don't know what else 
to give so someone
else can live.

~ after Cecilia Woloch



Surely there is a plain over which 
the promised snow will fall tonight, 
and in those moments the world will look 
unmarked: not edged with blood or war, not 
heaving under chalk and rubble. Surely 
the child who stumbled on the path finds
signs that point toward flourishing, and 
sets her sights anew. Surely there are those 
who still believe in the heart of a country,
in a country of the heart; and how one day
no one needs to run away. And if the gods
have turned aside, surely the ancestors
continue to keep watch— brushing the hair
out of our eyes, filling our lungs with 
breath; holding our pulsing hearts in their 
brown hands so we can see how beautifully  
built they are, and not at all of gummy   
paste and balled up newsprint.