Author: Luisa A. Igloria

How does he get off it before the skies combust in a bloom of fire?

Has there been anything more difficult to comprehend?
There may be situations like this. Or worse,
or easier. It depends.

He is either beside himself with terror,

or beside himself with something else:
joy, longing, sorrow. A pounding in his chest.
Or he is simply beside himself,

quietly regarding the situation.

Or thinking of another riddle—
Is this the way an angel might feel
on the head of a pin?

It is a long slide to the bottom.

It might be a quicker fall.
We are not told if he is wearing a robe,
saffron colored, which he might

spread open like a sail.

His pockets, if he has pockets,
may or may not have a ball
of emergency twine, some wax,

a smear of honey, a feather duster

picked up in previous travels.
From that height, sounds carry
with a difference in textures—

Commuter traffic, domestic arguments,

commerce in the marketplace.
How long before someone will say
finally, Look, there’s someone

on top of that pole?

Get the police. Get the first
responders. How did he get up there
in the first place?

(Reminder: he first appeared in this parable.)

Autumn foliage across the parks,
blazing its message of beautiful wreckage—
as he sits and contemplates the ladders

for his return or escape.

In response to small stone (172) and Via Negativa: Squirrel mind.

In my dreams, there is always some kind of bathroom.
Or the difficulty of finding a bathroom,
which upon waking is always the most lucid thing about the dream.
In one, there are corridors lined with doors.
One of them has got to be a bathroom.
A plane is about to take off from the tarmac, a plane I need to catch.
Finally, a door that opens onto a room with tile, a sink, commode—
But I retreat: the copper sink is full of blood.
In another there are people dressed in tuxedos and ball gowns.
The house is full of velvet drapes, plush Persian carpets, marble statues.
A grand piano sits resplendent in the drawing room.
The windows open to a view of hills at sunset.
But everyone is moving around frantically like moths with colored wings.
Everyone needs the bathroom.
And there is no bathroom, no apparatus for privacy or relief.
But there is a bench in front of the piano,
with a hinged top that opens in the manner of a toilet seat.

In response to Via Negativa: Semi-lucid.

Adverbs are shifty. They slink around. Sometimes they lead the conga line. Sometimes they insinuate themselves in the middle. Whose arms are suddenly wrapped around my hips? Ah. You see? Take simply: Simply being present in the world. Being simply present in the world. Being present simply in the world. I’m thinking too of how, over time, piles of stuff accumulated in the corners, in every apartment we’ve ever lived. Even now, bills in the gravy boat in the kitchen cabinet; books near the rice bin; squares of recycled gift wrap in the piano seat. Adverbs appeal to our sentimental nature. Merely. I’m merely saving for a rainy day. I’m saving merely for a rainy day. It’s merely a rainy day. It’s always a rainy day. Or is it that I haven’t made up my mind? How long have I kept this pair of fragrant candlesticks? They smell of gardenias. Correction: They smell faintly of gardenias. Faintly they smell of the day they sat on a damask-covered table, beside the wedding cake. We ate cake frosted with buttercream and orchids. We nibbled, a little daintily. The poppy seeds mixed with the taste of lemony things, buttery things, on our tongues. It can be simple again, you say. It can be simply this day, then the next, then the one after. One small quantity at a time. No matter: there are days I can see, more lucidly, into the heart of the matter. Lightly row, lilts the song. Yes, lightly. That I want. Lightly, I want.

In response to thus: simple things.

Me, myself, and I— now we’re mostly friends. But I can remember
a different time when I fought with one, hid from another’s shadow.

I’ve never sleep-walked, and I can’t imagine being my own
doppelgänger… Whose ghostly shadow lives in the shadows?

Once, at a writing retreat in a castle, the fire burned down in the grate.
Was it the cold and damp that woke me at dawn, or was it a sitting shadow?

Villagers told of a lady walking the ramparts at night. Heartsick
or homesick? Before she became a bride, she turned to shadow.

In Kurosawa’s famous film, a thief passes for the warlord who has died.
No one knows who plays flute music in the fields; eventually, all is shadow.

But what purchase this world still has over us— Mornings are green and lilac,
afternoons rouged with jewel hues; nights star-lit, though smudged with shadow.

In response to small stone (171).

expect a rain of spiders.
If they retreat to the bamboo grove,
you know it is to write poems on each stalk.
If rain is warm on your skin, go
into the backyard with a bar of soap.
If it slips out of your hand and floats
on the river, the capsized ferry
will arrive ten minutes ahead of schedule.
If thunder makes the sound of a hundred forks
falling to the floor, bring out wine glasses.
If the cat licking itself
is facing the door, expect guests.
If the color of the sky is indistinguishable,
you are allowed to start over.
If your friends turn first blue
then petulant, tell yourself
it’s only weather.
If the tilde is missing
from the n in your name,
you know you are done with that.

In response to small stone (170).