Author: Luisa A. Igloria

In response to Via Negativa: Long walk on the beach.

it finds the bodies that charge the air with their death

it finds the pen that draws from the vein

it finds the tongues that copper the bell

it finds the marrow that melts in a fortress of bone

it finds the stalk that does not sleep in the field

it finds what flickers beneath a thickness of ice

it finds the aperture in the glass

it finds the breath to ignite a twist of grass

In response to Via Negativa: Rendering unto Caesar.

“And now? How are you? Is there also a membrane
in the volcano along which the tongue glides?…”

~ “Colombia,” Tomaž Šalamun

It is the fifth day of the new year. Considering everything else, we are fine. I think we are fine. But of course it will be better once I have coffee, or something hot. No, no, I don’t want cookies or chocolate. My tongue is always homesick for something savory, something piquant; the sour mixed with hot; or a bitter green. Fermented fish I once ate with a scoop of rice, as the rain flooded all the plants in pots on the balcony. An entire library of little bones that melted to paste in the cave of the mouth— I know I will never have that again. Years ago, hiking on volcano island, Aunt L showed me where the lava was thickest, flowing across the road. I smelled hard-boiled eggs, as we scanned the horizon for long-legged birds. She reminded me to put back the rust-colored stone I picked up, thinking to take a souvenir. No, no, she said, the gods of the islands punish for even lesser sins than that. I wonder what would have happened if I had disobeyed? A pebble that threatens to inspire the jealousy of the gods is so much more interesting than a macadamia nut enrobed in dark chocolate, or a piece of dried pineapple. Last night, G. called from the airport, coming back from Antigua; she gushed about the colors: gold of maize, magenta and eggplant on the skirts of worry dolls. Rows of women weaving in the markets— the babies they flipped nonchalantly into slings, into whose mouths they popped their gummy breasts. Were we ever like that when our children were little, she wanted to know; and how do they do it, as though it were no big deal to carry another life on your back?

In response to Via Negativa: Correspondence.

Make friends again with the oar
in the lock, with the gears that turn
and the rudder that creaks
as it steers your craft

Don’t look at the water
and its treacherous surface of glass
or its depths that connive
with their legends of doubt

Make peace with the charterless
sky and the trail of marks left by each passing wing—
There are no witnesses here: only each body bearing
forward, leaving what needs to be left behind.

In response to Via Negativa: Stranger here myself.

“Adoro te devote, latens Deitas…” ~ St. Thomas Aquinas

Behind every story, a sympathy
that might need chiseling
in order to be seen.

And the daily hymn
that birds sing as they forage:
Does anything belong to me?

Take me in the cold and show me how
the hive sleeps: how it can bear the rumor
of gold cells ticking in the walls.

Driving through an unfamiliar neighborhood,
I remarked on how almost every house had doors
and windows with security grilles—

And I remembered one Saturday long ago:
me a child just taken out of the bath,
my mother vigorously toweling

my hair; the bedroom door ajar, the sounds
beyond of carpenters we’d hired, repairing
the fence and kitchen floor— Then,

an unfamiliar body, blur moving with speed,
knife in hand, through the outer hall:
commotion in the yard, incredulous

rain of nails, clatter of sawhorses, sharp-
punctured cries— Was that the sound of a fist
breaking a jaw? And I was gathered up

as my mother ran, though she ran toward
and not away, her voice a skillet coming down
hard, commanding a stop to whatever madness

had erupted in our midst. I can’t remember
exactly now if it had to do with the foreman’s
gambling debts, some drunken dalliance

or other vile offense. But clasped in the damp
towel to her heaving chest, I felt the walls
grow permeable: shells of spackled paper.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Distinct from the warm steam
in the shower: I can feel my breath.

*

Almost miraculous: how I never have to water
the orchid that hangs from the window-frame.

*

On our quiet street, dozens of leaf bags rest by the curb.
Rain of dry pine needles every time the wind gusts.

*

A Christmas tree on its side on the corner. Four
houses down, a string of lights kept on the porch all year.

*

My neighbor gets up at 4 to go to work at 5.
In the dark, orange glow of the check engine light.

*

I unwrap a small square of brittle: salty nut meat; then,
surprise of rosemary leaf entombed in the clear molasses.

*

After several bad connections and failed tries, finally
I talk with my 81 year old mother on the phone.

*

She is losing her hearing, but she says one thing over and over:
Don’t give up on anyone. Love your family. I want to kiss your face.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Have you returned with a message
from the dead just for today?

What does it mean if you have managed to free
the poplar leaf caught in the mirror?

What does it mean that the birds
have risen from the ashes and flown away?

Bang the lids of the iron pots together
and jump for joy in the yard.

It is time to fling wide the windows
to the bracing air of midnight.

It is time to open every drawer and watch
the sad ghosts of the old year disappear.

In response to Via Negativa: Stranger here myself.

Here we are again, at the end of the loop—
only it’s not the same place as last year on the loop;
perhaps a notch higher, but nevertheless the loop
we always think is endless at the start of the loop
is coasting to a finish— so twirl the looped
ribbon at the end of a stick, light the looped
fireworks then duck, dance with your arm looped
around the waist of the one whose life is now looped
in the loop of your own; it’s cold and leaves loop
in slow spirals to the ground, or float like a sloop
through water that looks like it’s spangled and looped
in ribbons of light— Infinity’s the name of the loop
that takes us away then brings us again to the end of the loop—

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.