Author: Luisa A. Igloria

Venturing out afterwards,
we count the bricks torn up
in the last hurricane, note

the welter of leaves stripped
from branches; see, as if for the first
time, stark form— Few layers now

obscure the view, so surface
and foreground more closely match
the underneath. All the gaudy

accessories— frills of russet leaf,
curled copper, tongues of topaz yellow—
recede into silt and verdigris

at the edges. And the water
that with the tidal surge rose
through narrow alleys by corner

restaurants, came up the steps
of a public library built in 1904
(foreclosed a few years ago by the Old

Point National Bank). It barely grazed
the sidewalks on our own street,
though merely a block away

the neighbors had two feet of water
in their garages. And no, we can’t
predict which of these buildings

will sink into the sea (brick or aluminum
siding, stucco, vinyl, fiber cement); which
ones will weather the onslaughts of another

century. Soon after inventories of its losses,
the city and its neighborhoods rumble slowly
back to life. The gulls return—

not that they ever left—
and like us, pick desultorily
through oddments, through debris.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

They climbed to the promontory
and took photographs of memorials,
brushing the dirt aside to read
the letters that told of who
had been there before. She wondered
if the black specks she sighted
above the ridge were vultures; if,
after all this time, such birds
might still take an interest
in cured and leathered bodies,
mummified and resting in their caves.
In the village, the rest house
had no heat. For bathing,
there were metal drums filled
with chilled spring water. It was
the last day of the year—
Bonfires flickered. Frost trails
formed at the ends of sentences.
They were unaware of their own
restlessness, soon to be eclipsed
by the years. Above terraces
lined by hand with stone
upon stone, the occasional burst
of a firecracker. Mostly, the wind.
Or the muffled sound of a gong.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

That calm: before?
after?— The storm.

The pause
that brackets

the feathered cry
at dawn— The rooster

trills Deny, deny—
And still the waters

rush across the pier.
The turnstile

at the station twirls
in place. A wall

is shorn away to show
the flimsy hive.

The branch comes down
upon the roof.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Before I learned geography in school, Hokkaido
was simply my family’s favorite brand of canned
mackerel, opened especially in typhoon weather.
No matter that sheets of cold rain fell and fell,
and indoors we suspected we’d started to smell
a little biblical— And the power went out,
but we had candles, and a can opener!
We could still boil rice in a blackened
pot on the one-burner kerosene stove. Little blue-
fin mackerel, jumping (from which fishing port
off the coast of Hokkaido?) into the net, into
the can and into our steaming bowls awash in black
pepper, white vinegar, and thinly sliced shallots,
you were among the first briny tastes of other
coastlines that entered my mouth. And even now,
whenever rain pelts at the windows and the skies
turn the color of dull aluminum, when the winds
make the trees’ arms rise like wings of cranes
in the marshlands, I think of this word, Hokkaido.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

The hinge of any moment looks forward and back: the past is behind,
the weekend ahead. On the radio: a soprano’s clear notes scale the crest.

It’s long past summer, but the light at night and cloud formations
look weird. And in the morning, the sky magenta as the sun clears the crest.

Is it time to make a hurricane run? Batteries, flashlights, water;
how about chips, dips, and wine instead of fake chicken breast?

Home late, long past dinner time: I’m foraging in the fridge—
mung beans and shrimp paste, wilted greens. Cold rice, lemon zest.

It must be near my period: I cycle from sweet to salty and back
to sweet. I miss the kiss of wind on my lips. Or just to kiss.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

What knocks
the wind
out of you?
Bad news
or good,
a fright,
a long-
held
breath
of
grief
or joy
raveling
from the gut?
Keep the middle
way, they say—
though nothing
much ever happens
in that vacant nest.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.