Author: Luisa A. Igloria

Does this mean my daily practice has been running for
15 years instead of 14 (as I thought)? I suck at Math. 

(For Peter S., Nini and Pancho L,
Aileen and Paul C.)



Terminal hallway
Echoes at 4 am but 
not from crows calling

Between one time zone
and the next and the next, does
Fate move forward and back

Seals in their rookery 
at low tide Marine layer 
pressed on the trees

Palimpsest of hills
And the body remembers 
other hills elsewhere

We catch up with time
Meeting again under ceilings 
clothed by dreamweavers

Leaves of the laurel 
that we call bay Myth of a 
body changed by the gods

Salt spray in the air—
Maladies named and unnamed
What we seek as cure

Walls of mission white
Scalloped roofs of terracotta
Scrolled ironwork grilles

Bowls of oxtail stew—
A restaurant in a casino 
called Lucky Chances 

Departures and arrivals
Estuaries still lead to the sea 
Monuments of claiming
 
In the museum 
a robot spews glitter in a 
future afterparty

say the signs stenciled across
the wing of the plane. Meaning this
is an edge, or danger— whether 
the aircraft is at rest or in flight.
Such warnings anticipate the possible
before the actual, the impulse before
it materializes as the decision to move
in a certain direction. It means someone
thought of consequences others might not
have foreseen— and so there are neon-
colored guard rails, there are graded
ramps up the entrances to buildings. 
Break glass in case of emergency, printed
across the fire extinguisher box affixed
to the wall. Alarm Bell, says the sign
above a hand-sized red button near 
the stairwell. There are similar 
devices that only certain individuals 
can activate, if they perceive a threat
(whether the perception is correct or
the person was just kidding). Such devices 
could start wars, could even nuke our entire 
planet. In such cases, there isn’t a failsafe. 
No moment after for saying Oops, my bad.

I am poor and I owe
an incalculable debt
to the world— I have taken
more than my share of what
it has given, and still 
it does not begrudge another
chance to secure my so-called
fortune. I owe a debt to my
friends, who puzzle, together
with me, the ledger figures
in our shared accounting of 
this life. On one side, I am
still short of a complete
reckoning, a clearing of 
the slate. On the other, 
the hourglass sheds its
crystals at a faster rate.
It has a narrow waist 
that reminds me of a certain 
ache that falls somewhere 
between needing more and 
wanting less, that at some 
point it will start its motion 
all over again, not out 
of meanness or spite
but because that is its 
nature. And I am rich with
a surplus, always, of feeling.
There is so much, I often
don’t know what to do with it;
and other times, it saves me
from thinking I am completely 
bereft, empty as a pauper’s purse.

I don't remember what I was doing the year I turned 14.
Besides school, I mean. I was not yet in high school, but
I know my parents were talking about transferring me out
of the Catholic school I'd attended since kindergarten.
My father in particular wanted me to go to the University
of the Philippines high school in our city, because he 
himself was a U.P. (Law School) graduate, and because
he claimed he was willing to risk my becoming an atheist
as long as it meant I could get a good education, one
that would teach me how to use my mind. 

We were a family of avid readers, but changing schools
did make a difference— I felt more challenged, among my 
new cohort who were not only smart but also (I thought)
seemed so much more worldly and cool in comparison to
my awkward self. Super introverted, I didn't talk much 
unless called on. But even then, I knew I was good 
with words. I knew that I wanted to write, though I
wasn't quite sure what that meant, back then. 

Before I transferred high schools, a previous
teacher had given our class an oral test on metaphor;
I failed it, I think not because of a complete lack
of understanding, but because the premises were not
correct. That teacher had us take turns looking at 
a simple watercolor (mountains, trees) on her desk,
and asked us to think of metaphors (remember, no "like" 
or "as"). Everyone else seemed to have no lack of things
to say, which also meant they were totally spin-doctoring
the assignment. When it was my turn, I looked at the flat 
watercolor which had no nuance or detail. I said, It's just 
a mountain and some trees. 

Despite that seemingly inauspicious experience, my path 
has led to where I am today— and I feel so very grateful 
and lucky that I'm able to do what I love best— write 
and teach writing and literature, talk poetry and writing 
with students and colleagues and a community of writing 
friends both where I am and through virtual connection— 
many of these thanks to Via Negativa and Dave Bonta, 
for the space he's shared here where I've kept a daily 
writing practice (writing and posting at least) a poem 
a day for the last 14 years.  

This daily practice has allowed me to put at least 4 books
and chapbooks together. More importantly, it's given me 
so many kinds of insight about myself and my writing; it's
the high point of every day, and it's here where I get 
excited about trying new things or mulling over 
returning questions.

Here's to the next 14 - and more.

~ after "The Funeral of Shelley," Louis Edouard Fournier; 1889


Soft tissue, mostly.
Hair, skin, nails, muscles, 
organs. All the water of the body
turns to vapor. Some parts of teeth 
survive the heat, though gums liquefy 
as pulp. Bone fragments can also survive; 
and the jaw, the skull. In Fournier's 
picture, Mary Shelley kneels in the sand, 
hands crossed over her breast. Byron, 
Trelawney and Hunt argue over the charred 
bit of muscle that surprisingly survives 
the fire— but Mary gets to keep what was 
believed to be her poet-husband's calcified 
heart, after he drowned and was cremated 
on a beach in Viareggio. She wrapped it in 
a bit of silk or linen and some pages of 
his poetry. It lay in her drawer until 
its discovery after her death.

When we arrived, there was only one chair in the upper room, 
and a square of sunlight.

Isn't it endearing, that prelude before the camera picks up 
the details? You can see how slow time is even as it lapses.

The hairline fissure in the corner is patched with plaster.

It is a known fact that even houses shift and breathe.

November again, and here  ground is stitched with 
the shadows of leaves.

For weeks now, after trash pickup, we've found our bins
on the other side of the street. A neighbor wants to start 
a petition to address this.

We have a twelve-year-old bottle of wine that still sits 
unopened on the rack. 

Nothing was promised to us though we made promises. 

Perhaps the tiny diamond that loosened from 
its prongs winks somewhere under the floorboards.
 
Last week the skies glowed a deep magenta shot through
with green— like blown glass tempered with gold salts and
metal oxides.

We clear out boxes, odds and ends of the years 
crammed into a space for transients: everything

we couldn't then bear to part with or throw
away, taking up space in each corner. Without

a garage, even leftover paint cans from touchups
of exterior siding are here; the binders I put

together for my last appointment review, our
daughter's first pair of shoes. A one-burner

camping stove, Christmas lights, rechargeable
batteries for the weed-whacker. Light from the east-

facing window only touches the headboard through
gaps in the blinds. Below the south-facing window,

the heater keeps up its whooshing strain. Are we
clearing things out for some new delight? Rumi says

we should be grateful for whoever comes, because 
each has been sent as a guide from beyond.

The woman in the video cuts a head of cabbage 
into wedges, sears them in a skillet. 

Butter browns and sizzles. She flips them over 
and waits for the other side to char.

Some aromas from the kitchen take me back to another time.

Memory is a slow cooker sometimes; and at other times
a deep fryer.

If you rub a lemon slice across your fingers it takes
away the garlic smell. 

Pour water into the half-shell of durian and wash 
your hands in that basin.

I have heard groups of women whispering about another
woman using words for musk and stink, flesh and fruit.

They're the type who warn that certain fruits, when eaten 
during your period, tinge your blood foul and sour.

In the foothills of Mt. Banahaw, there are legends 
of a woodland deity. During a famine, she gently pinched 
the sides of poisonous fruit and made them sweet. 

The anthropologist who did field work in the heart 
of the rainforest proposed that cooking food marked 
the difference between nature and culture.

When we are children, we taste the world in what we
pick up with our fingers— dandelion leaf, serviceberry,
green plum, water from the rust-slicked mouth of garden 
hose pressed against our own.

(Roof rat)


They run rampant in these coastal neighborhoods. 
We heard scratching within the walls, saw droppings 

beneath the kitchen sink and in the damp basement 
the landlord doesn't bother to light properly. 

We found a bag of scones on the floor, chewed 
clean through. We're told to get rat poison 

and see if that will fix the problem. Some 
come in tubs labeled Just One Bite. Active 

ingredient, either bromethalin or warfarin. 
Up until the turn of the last century, arsenic 

and thallium were also used. A skull and cross-
bones sticker indicates lethality: Danger! Fatal

if swallowed, inhaled, or absorbed through skin.
The poison causes internal bleeding, nerve damage, 

pulmonary edema. Death can follow: not immediately
but fairly quickly or it might take a few days. 

We found it twitching in the corner, making sounds
that might be interpreted as both snarl and shriek. 

Not us but pest control came to take it off 
our hands. Meaning a dispatch, or a deposition.