Author: Luisa A. Igloria

the age of your college teacher when she
                 was about to retire? Strange  
word, that: retire, as if to get spent,
       exhausted all over again, but good; 
from whatever exertions caused you
                 to tire in the first place.
As in second wind, perhaps? or as in
       those kinds of physical activity 
that increase the height of derivable
                 pleasure the more you sweat
and pant? A sheen breaks out over your fore-
       head, down your back; all your little valleys 
and the fireworks in the sky. I used to quip:
                 if we're going to die, we might 
as well die of pleasure. I'd say it again
       even now, though some think the store of 
the world's true remaining pleasures is dwindling 
                 by the minute, maybe even by the second. 
You wonder what tidbit remains that hasn't been  
       colonized; or what the ultra rich tech bro
was thinking when he first decided he would suck out 
                 his son's plasma, believing it will keep 
him young forever. Then there's a celebrity who uses 
       "medical leeches" to clean her blood. How
could you bear to drink powdered shakes for the rest
                 of your life? You swoon at the slightest 
thing— like when, at the Greek festival, a vendor hands you 
        a toothpick dipped in honey from the sap of fir 
trees. The note it carries says not only flowers, not only  
                nectar but a warm wood can open in your mouth.

Some days, I ask myself where exactly 
I am on the scale between emerging 
and established; or if I've been filed
under the category older poet. No, 
I've never been in the BAP; never 
gotten an NEA nor a Guggenheim (yet)  
though believe me, I've tried; barely 
make it on the lists of must-reads 
for AAPI or FilAm history month.  
I had a student who is now a Very 
Famous and Important Poet; I don't 
think she remembers me much 
anymore, if at all. I had a teacher 
who said, It's really about who you know. 
But I still believe in the poems I want 
to write, believe in the air I breathe, 
the tiny electric pulse which begins
as a prickle somewhere in the brain 
or sensorium, informing me I need 
to sink into the shag carpet of that
moment and stop asking only the logical 
questions; because then a trapdoor 
might open and who knows what bright, 
surprising universe I might fall into? 
One of my daughters is busy planning 
a birthday cake for her soon-to-be-second-
grader. Last year, the theme was Lego 
Ninjago; she made everything by hand, 
including a little bridge, and temple arches 
painted red and gold. This year, it's Dungeons 
and Dragons: she sent me a photo of a fierce
fondant dragon lording it over three layers
wrapped in royal icing and dripping with candy 
treasures. You're so good at this, I tell her; 
you should consider doing a side gig. Except, 
she says, and rightly so— it wouldn't feel 
fun anymore. And I realize it's the same for me
—though it's easy to forget, when the world is
so pushy-noisy. I want to live inside the names
of things that can take me close to the heart 
of those same things, and also somewhere else 
I've never been: their mycelial networks
holding hands in the dirt, while overhead
a canopy of oak and elm and maple publish  
their own versions of feeling, thinking, being.

There was a restaurant in Chicago
we loved— in Chinatown— called Three 
Happiness. We used to joke that we'd be
happy even with one, or two. This year,
for the third or fourth or fifth time, 
I didn't make the list. Short list, 
long list, whatever kind of list I was 
competing for. But thankfully, of late, 
people have been spelling my first 
name correctly, instead of slipping in 
an "o" or forgetting the "u." The woman 
who owns the yarn store that she's packing 
up to go into real retirement this time, 
remembered what kinds of color skeins I 
used to buy. I picked up sock yarns 
called "Meadow" and "Midas Touch," 
grateful I could still imagine finishing 
a small project I knew would demand my full 
attention. Two weeks ago my good friend  
passed away in another country after a surgery  
he didn't recover from. Another friend told me 
she saw my eldest daughter, who hasn't spoken 
to me in almost five years, at his wake; I 
was grateful for the report that she looked well, 
though I will admit sometimes I don't know 
what that means anymore. I saw some pictures 
someone had taken— now her hair is long, 
cascading curls like in pre-Raphaelite 
paintings. I am still seized by an impossible 
sadness whenever I think of her; I suppose 
it will never pass. But yes, I am grateful 
she is alive in the world. Today and all 
the rest of the week, it will be rainy 
and cloudy. There is a flood watch too, 
though the weekend promises to be clearer.    

some of the different parts 
of myself: there's the manager, 
the one who asks you countless 
times to please turn off the lights 
when you leave the room, reminds you 
that you need to call central scheduling 
for an upcoming test (and by the way, 
this week is also recylcing week). 
That's also the one who scours 
the internet for information— best 
ways to prevent raccoons from pooping 
in the yard, how to tell if an ankle 
lesion needs more serious attention, 
how to better organize the pantry 
and the medicine cabinets. There's 
the child, skipping in the aisles 
of the grocery store after finding 
sweets she hasn't had in years: coconut 
jelly, fruit in syrup on which to pile 
a mountain of shaved ice in a tall glass. 
And there's that same child, younger
but older and sitting quietly by 
herself in the window bay, feeling  
how the minutes are pushing her 
to the front of the line, telling 
her to get ready for what she 
can't really know is coming. 

My husband insists we used to have one.
Brown, some kind of leather or leatherette
—I'd say vinyl, but leatherette at least
sounds cuter, unlike synthetic or faux
leather. He says he'd sometimes sleep 
in it, since it was in the only room 
with an A/C unit. For the life of me 
I can't remember that we ever had such 
a chair; or who gave it to us, since 
I would never have bought such a big, 
ugly thing myself. Recliners were supposed 
to be good for astronauts just back from 
long space missions, since gravity improves 
circulation when you raise your feet above 
the level of the heart. Perhaps at first
it feels comfortable to sink deep into 
such a chair; but getting up out of it 
can feel like flailing. The spine 
might not be fully supported. But what 
do I know? I've never flown first class, 
where the seats are tufted, the bread 
buttery, the desserts Michelin-starred. 
I prefer the idea of a chaise— what 
used to be called a fainting couch 
in Victorian times: something to fall 
upon in an excess of emotion, or 
what they might also call a swoon.     

After snowy masses of Bradford 
pear, magnolia trees have bloomed 

with flowers ahead of season. Crepe 
myrtle trunks shed skin, down to 

their smooth, unwrinkled layer. 
But the fig— the fig has always 

been preparing for bounty. Shorn 
in early spring, its limbs now  

heave with scalloped green. 
Fruit the shape of small light-

bulbs soon will flush ruddy 
cheeks as if to say look, 

the world, despite all that we 
are told, cannot yet be ending. 

Halo, they call it; as though it were
a circle floating like the aura of a saint

or a LED bulb over your head. Telescoping—
as though the walls were closing in,

lengthening like a runway for takeoff 
to a constellation that hasn't been 

discovered yet. A small tilt in 
the direction of wind, a shift 

in the floorboards. The heave and foam 
of the sea in your stomach, and you 

wash up on an island. No sails, only 
sheets. The sun is banished from this 

kingdom for now, though it knows you
still love its bronzes and buttercups.   

"Like a soul tentatively sounding out
a place it might alight."
                 ~ Han Kang, The White Book


Light footfall— imagine 

a cottony trail worked 

by hooves as if 

on tiptoe. 

           Smallest 

in the world, like a wish

that survived the odds.

The underside 

              of day 

is night; then night 

startles alive 

though it has 

               one

unfinished sleeve. 


  


 

hydrangea, hortensia. Blue that I love
         to snip this time of year, stems
I plunge in water collected in mason
         jars. Blue like the blue of sweet
pea flowers; blue from weeks of heavy 
         rain, decomposing matter, somewhere 
perhaps a chain of chemical rot. I have no
         word for my satisfaction in this  
planetary network I carry indoors in my hands,  
         after I've shorn off its protective  
ruff of green hearts— They fall on sunken slate,  
         my careless discards. Perhaps they'll  
return to haunt me in the fade of night. Or
         perhaps even now the wind has lofted  
them out to a different sea where they'll float
         and sink, free of prayer or offering.   

When my student said she prayed to the universe 
for a sign— something specific but random, like 2 

red feathers— I remembered a gift I received 
some years ago. A red daruma doll, eyeless

and round, modeled after the monk Bodhidharma
who made a vow to sit zazen for nine years.

On this quest for enlightenment, he fell 
asleep on the seventh year; and out of remorse, 

cut off his own eyelids so he would never close
his eyes again. Because we are all looking for some 

sign that we're on the right path, I took a permanent 
marker and inked in his left eye, then made my own 

wish. Only when it came true could I give him his other
eye. I'm not sure now if he has the power to make my

desire come true, or if I've simply learned to trust that
given time, the universe will answer. He sits on a corner 

of my bookshelf, waiting. Outside, birds in a bevy of colors 
dart in and out of willow oaks and crepe myrtle: crows, jays, 

cardinals; black-crowned night herons whose droppings 
make nearly indelible marks on car roofs and windows.