“Just Trying to Get Better Cellphone Reception”
Dear ineffectually disguised intruder, dear
close call way out of turn, could you not have
thought of a better excuse when the police
doing Segway rounds caught you— having just
cleared the jutting-out branch of the maple,
having just jimmied the second floor front
windows of the neighbor, the ones that open
into atrium space clear from the balcony above
to the floor below? You didn’t know about
the thirteen foot drop, the jumble of plants
in pots by the door, the sharp cacophony
of broken terra cotta. Obviously you
had other things in mind— art work
in expensive frames on the wall;
a bedroom safe, shiny jewelry, small
appliances, cash found in a drawer:
anything, anything else but that.
—Luisa A. Igloria
10 10 2011
Shadow Play
A year ago I could have loved you. ~ Frank Graziano
I could have been the silhouette lifted from
parchment; or the tight little whorl of a bell
pepper nested inside its body like a heart.
—Luisa A. Igloria
10 09 2011
Simple
Not one or two but several layers
of complicated tastes and fragrances—
cassia and anise, coriander, fennel,
fenugreek: why can’t sugar be sweet
and salt be itself, even bitterness
be green distilled from herbs
grown hardscrabble in the soil?
Sometimes, I want the straight-
forward thing, no break hinged
between skin and seam.
Sometimes I want the flat side
of paper, not anymore its curl.
—Luisa A. Igloria
10 08 2011
Landscape, with Notes of Red
Bright red enamel of a teapot through the window,
brick red of a roof. Ask the weather vane twisted
in the shape of a whale which red it was that drew
fire from the earth’s belly, which red planted
seeds that burned in the mouth of the girl—
she held out for half a year without seeing
the black-throated blue warbler, without hearing
yellow-throated vireos speckling the air with
their song. So stark, these trellises of bark and steel-
cut grays. Whose white scarf has caught in the trees?
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
Frontispiece
We see them again now— inked V of geese
brushing against the sky, turning
the flyleaf toward winter.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
On the road
an hour past sunrise
slug trails glisten
on the highway berm
Nocturne
Scrounging around in the kitchen tonight
to make lunch for my daughters,
I find there’s only the end slice
left from a loaf of wheat.
But there are dry noodles in the pantry,
and in the vegetable bin a few
green onions, some carrots. And
leftover chicken, which I can cut
into strips! Into the boiling water,
a few drops of sesame oil impart
such a rich fragrance; soy sauce
deepens the color of stock.
A car door slams somewhere down
the way. Across the rooftops, thin
stroke of a train whistle. Who’s going?
Goodnight or goodbye; and love to you.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
Dear solitude,
what is it like to live by oneself?
I can no longer remember, or if I ever
truly did. Surely it can’t have been
in the short month intervening after I
graduated from college and then got married,
believing that was the only way I might
finally make a life, something of my own.
Neither can it have been in the years
I went to graduate school, the first time
after my second child was born; and then again
when my third child turned three— Roommates
down the hall sharing the bathroom,
sharing the fridge and kitchen (though also
cleaning duties). And at home, with growing
children and extended family, never any
door that one could keep closed for too long.
I didn’t really mind, but also welcomed
summers when I could slip away by myself
to visit a friend, go to a writing retreat,
work free of the coils of schedules and
routines for two short weeks. Oh the joys
of breakfast at 11 and bedtime at 3, a walk
with no other purpose than the walk itself.
On the other hand, my pathologist friend
in Chicago, who’d lived by himself for over
thirty years, sometimes told me how he wished
for human sounds in the middle of the night,
in the empty bedrooms of his tastefully
furnished flat— how he’d scan the trees
bereft of birds and their call and response,
how sometimes he’d flush the toilet in the guest
bathroom at random times of day, just to hear
the water gurgling before eddying away.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
Posing with banjos
During an idle couple of hours looking at images tagged “banjo” on Flickr, I was struck by how many truly odd photos turned up. Here are a few of my favorites (click through for credits and to see larger versions).
