Author: Luisa A. Igloria

What becomes of us
when the hours all run out?
I want to look back
and not harden into salt.
Not be embodied in grief.

All out of season—
Early crepe myrtle showers.
Rain few and far between.
A wave machine drives water
into a pool: no exit.

I will live alone
at some point—circled by grass
and trees, hum of bees. 
I can only hope for such
grace, if not absolution.

Some days I am lint
stuck to every coat pocket.
Some days I find change
to feed the laundry machine,
when I had no higher ambition.

What word lives inside
me that will last all season?
The birds say listen.
I haven’t learned to be brave,
to trust the undulations.

On a northern island
lashed constantly by typhoons,
houses built with stone.
Withstand could be its motto.
Abide could be another.

This is the spot where
the year begins to fold back
into itself. Sharp
crease in the middle. Vellum
through which we glimpse the future.

We ask for patatas bravas, buñuelos 
de bacalao; manchego cheese and honey.
We ask for jamon serrano,  champiñones 
al ajillo, pan con tomate. Small plates, easy 
to finish when shared with friends. Rhetorical
question: why do I find the foods of my first 
colonizer delicious? Ordinary fare: steamed
swamp spinach, fried scad, rice. Delicious,
especially eaten without silverware, but not 
served to guests or at parties. Our tongues, 
taught to swerve from the language of our 
origins. Taught to soften the trills 
that might remind us of birds.

You begin to smell it everywhere—
the burn like sugar gone past the candy 
stage in a pan. And then rubber tires 
soften against the curb. You could make 
a furrow in the road's asphalt as though 
it were a cake top spread with buttercream. 
Metal pins curve into glossy punctuation 
marks. Every exposed mirror empties its
pocket of frozen water. Stop signs fuse 
red, green, and yellow. If all of us jumped 
into a public pool, we'd bob like eggs
heated through to our jammy centers, 
crying out for an ice bath. 

As we round the corner to the end of June, 
the forecast has the full moon reaching 
its peak and Mercury slowing down. 
In many stories, the moon wears a face 
you could read if it revealed itself to you. 
This doesn't necessarily mean you'd ask it 
to grant a wish. I never wanted to live forever, 
though I did often dream I could fly. The moment
a thing manifests is often followed by the moment
it fades. This is why sometimes, you never 
want to wake up from a dream.