Author: Luisa A. Igloria

Inside an envelope of rain, a city sleeps
or stirs, making labyrinths, going about its
business. Has it known another fate than to be
a city teeming inside an envelope of rain?

An envelope of rain is still an enclosure,
whether it is mist that barely falls or a torrent.
Living inside, you cultivate belief in color:
saffron and juniper, even the drab of olive—

And even surrounded by dry dust, groves of olives flourish;
stands of cypress establish hardscrabble existence, root
footholds in landscapes of rock. You don’t see the enclosure:
where I’ve dug in my heels, cultivating this thing I love.

A woman throws up in a crowded bus.
Within minutes, the men in hazmat suits descend.
Fear of contagion panics escalations of distress.

A mother claps a hand upon a baby’s mouth; breathless
she’s crushed by bodies in the street, their frenzied blend
caused by a woman throwing up in a crowded bus.

Meanwhile in Texas, one recovered nurse
gives statements to the press. Daily unpinned,
fear of contagion panics escalations of distress.

I listen on the radio for reports on body counts.
My daughter asks how disease transfers, blood to blood—
What danger is posed by throwing up in a crowded bus?

A radio report recreates conditions— let’s say, a virus
lurking in a monkey’s blood: let’s say the hunter nicked
his hand. Days later: swollen glands, nausea; night sweats.

Cities teem with airports, rivers, bridges. How to adjust
the portals and vents? No current wisdom provides defense.
Watch as a woman throws up in a crowded bus.
Watch the fear of contagion escalate beyond distress.

In response to Via Negativa: Outbreak.

And give me the not-quite-gold,
the earring found on the sidewalk
without its clasp, the little sip
of coffee left in a paper cup—

Give me the bit role with no
speaking parts so I can be near
the ones whose hearts sing as if
at the point of breaking—

Give me the ache of light
that licks the undersides
of leaves just before dusk,
that dot of butter in the tea—

Give me even that brief
moment of rending, visceral
shudder after the god has grazed
the hills in his passing—

In response to Via Negativa: Ukiyo.

“Art too is just a way of living.” – Rainer Maria Rilke

And I am the coin surrendered to the mouth of the machine, the ticket that the chain will perforate, indifferent to how or where. I am the payment collected in advance for a carnival ride that ends before it even begins. Here I am again, among the tents where strays and midgets sit, where the natives polish the foreman’s shoes; where the sad girls in torn tutus comb through their high wire repertoire of dreams. Not even the camel knows how narrow the door. Not even the needle knows the jaundice in the eye. Line up, line up for the rations and the dinner bell. Remember, as they ladle out the dregs, what it is that feeds you.

In response to Via Negativa: Sunset Boulevard.

In response to Via Negativa: Heritage.

At holiday gift exchanges, the doll
in the other child’s box is always more

appealing, with its shiny ponytail and pert
nose, the nip-tucked waist, the cheerleader

outfit and the matching pink plastic Ferrari.
And later, in middle school and high school,

she’ll get to go with some of her class
on the optional field trip to Italy or Paris,

or preselect courses for advanced college credit.
Elsewhere in the world a class of 52 students

shares 1 workbook, 1 makeshift schoolroom
with a dirt floor, 1 box of broken crayons.

I could go on, and I suspect you also could
go on about the argument that states how no one

can be held responsible for what is beyond human
control, since no one chooses the conditions of

one’s birth. At least acknowledge that the field
has never been level: that the work of counting

and ministering to dying bodies is underwritten by prejudice.
Though when you look out the window at the sea, it goes on

as if forever. And in its depths, whole cities have perished,
whole towns have drowned in the wake of tsunamis.

In response to Via Negativa: Outskirts.