Author: Luisa A. Igloria

A while ago in the cool
shadows: an eddy of warm air,
then the scent of ferns.

What gleans moisture
from the blades, spreads
heat from leaf to broad

leaf, before morning
is even halfway gone.
In the receding shadows,

the scarlet flame
of a tanager flashes
once, then disappears.

Here I am, untwisting
threads from their
gathered knots—

to try again to lay
the winding straight.
So it is each day,

impatient fingers at their practice;
and only hope that time might
make things new again.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

And the sun stood still, and the moon stayed…
~ Joshua 10:13

Here is the country of all
set-aside longings, the place

where non-leap year days go to bide
their time; here is the island

where minutes shaved off from each
early appointment have come to rest,

alongside every stitch in time
that saved nine. In spring

and summer (except in Texas or
St. Petersburg during White

Nights), each day delivers
an extra hour of daylight,

along with the newspapers
and milk. Barely any winds

disturb its flags, hoisted
on threads light as thistle-

down. Barely a tremor twirls
the weather vanes in the shapes

of planets and stars:
they merely revolve, calmly

in place— mouthing mantras
of patient waiting.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

“… Hide me in the shadow of your wings.” ~ Psalm 17:8

We wake when the light has touched
the window-blinds, or to the sound

of wheels skimming early across asphalt.
And it is as though another day opens,

one door among many in passageways so long,
even the industry of carpenter ants might

falter. It is so hard to heft a pannier
of provisions from one gallery

to the next— But sometimes I think
I glimpse a familiar figure up ahead, robed

in saffron: gesturing Get up, shoulder
the load; keep pace, keep moving along.

Time teaches a lighter tread: or
the body bound to gravity must shed

layer after layer. What progress is tracked,
comes only in the manner of what’s discarded:

powdery frass, fine shavings of wood
highlighting paths we’ve tunneled.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Yes we are fierce, yes we take our
possessions with us wherever we go,
especially the ones you cannot see.

In the city at dusk, in a one-room apartment:
the former teacher remembers his childhood
friend and childhood sweetheart, and is moved

to write a poem; there is rain in it, and rice
fields. At a restaurant: the woman who has not
seen her child in years, hesitates as she lifts

a soup spoon to her lips. How does a bowl
transform into an ocean of salt and misgivings?
Its shallow depths are the sign of constant

uprooting, its ripples the sites
of the sloughing off of many skins.
Where will you be tomorrow?

Just when I thought you would stay, a letter
arrives with another forwarding address.
Have you a grandmother, a babushka,

a lola, a nonna? She sits in a doorway
or on a porch, feeling the light on her lids.
Sometimes, pennants of color and noise flit

through the trees, like words in another tongue.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

“Earwigs, of the order Dermaptera. Dermaptera is Greek in origin, stemming from … dermatos, meaning skin, and pteron, wing. It was coined by Charles De Geer in 1773. The common term, earwig, is derived from the Old English eare, which means ear, and wicga, which means insect.”

Despite the throbbing in your temples and
the growing migraine heat behind each pupil,
your job is to find the second alley to the right
in the direction of the old Hangar Building.

You will pass the butchers and meat-sellers,
their garlands of sausages hanging from hooks
surrounded by adoring flies. You will pass
the widows with their baskets of bitter

melon, banana hearts sheathed in purple
husks, yellow squash flowers wilting
in the heat. The one with the glass eye
tells fortunes. If you find yourself among

the sellers of grain, you will have walked
too far. Turn back and look for a narrow
passageway between the noodle shop and
the shoe repairer. Watch for the weathered

green door and follow the steps to the third
floor landing. Don’t mind the old men smelling
of tobacco smoke or incense hunched on the bench,
eyes closed, motionless as tokers. The acupuncturist

waits under a naked bulb in the room. He bows and holds
a pair of silver calipers aloft like a wizened insect.
He swabs the inside of each ear with a cotton ball
dipped in sterile fluid, and picks the tiniest

tacks from the tray of needles. He twirls them
into the rubbery folds of skin where they’ll lodge
for a week under the topmost crease of your ear
and probe the meridians of your hidden pains.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

“There is no one to bless this.”
~ Matthew Rohrer

The velvet of the tongue against the roof
of the mouth, the smell of apple blossom—

I don’t quite remember what was said about
the life we’ve been given, for the touch

of fingers on my wrist. Who will witness
this perfect morning, clear and cool?

Sunlight splinters, translucent in the leaves
like handfuls of flung grain. In the woods,

the animals take provisions to their den.
I sign myself over: I do, I do.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

“Milagros are religious folk charms traditionally used for healing purposes and as votive offerings in Mexico, the southern United States, other areas of Latin America, as well as parts of the Iberian peninsula. …[T]hey can be constructed from gold, silver, tin, lead, wood, bone, or wax. In Spanish, the word milagro literally means miracle or surprise.”

Dear red striated muscle, vascular and
slightly bigger than my two cupped hands,

I saw your image stitched and stuffed as a well-
worn pincushion with the legend “There

is a place in my heart for you”. I cringe
at the thought of needles; and also because

I know that every eye, finger, bone, or body
part left by the wayside altar means something

has been sacrificed, given at cost for another’s
due. Crow feasting on that bit of severed

flesh, do you stop your fevered work to notice
the day is overcast and cool, doused with

the creosote smell of rain? It doesn’t fall,
only makes threats that cast a pall on our

determined plans. And your rejoinder comes alongside
calls exchanged by ravens: how mystery is never led

nor haltered, but even the bird clothed head to claw
in ashes, flashes a tin orb: a jewel in its drusy eye.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Overcast sky, the rain that falls
elsewhere. The canopy of electric sound
cicadas weave throughout the trees.

You have me scour the pockets
of such moments for some remnant
change— and here I lay them down

and balance them on a rim of glass.
A silver-spotted skipper drinks
from the bergamot and I want

to tip my face toward the flower’s
starburst cup. So long at work,
and teetering from one impossible

task to another. I count and recount
an abacus of spilled grain, water flowing
from a sieve: o gather me now in.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Dear constant chafing
under heel and ball
of foot, teach me patience

for the long, slow simmer
under water, in the wild;
teach me the inward-

turning gift of each
lunar hollow, smaller
than the eye could reckon.

Within the pebbled garden
where monks rake labyrinth
upon labyrinth, juniper

and pine open in the wind
to praise. Shingle and shale
upon the beach: buffed

by seafoam and crowned
by the gods’ careless spit,
you’ve promised

like a lover to mold
me smooth, to lilt me
quick across the water

to the other side.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.