Tag: Luisa A. Igloria

Late afternoon, coming back from the store and planting three-dollar solar lights along the walk, we hear the night heron again from its nest in the tree: harsh, high-pitched squawks, yips almost like a feisty puppy’s at the end. We’ve seen four of them: skulking around our trash bin, or hanging around the fish pond in the neighbor’s yard. They bend their heads to the water, fluff out their wings, ripple them. And the river’s close— so we know they must forage for snails, small fish, fiddler crabs, along the shallows. Directly underneath where they roost, the pavement’s splattered grey and white like a Jackson Pollock. One of them comes so close, so suddenly, to the fence by the kitchen window— You look up and at first, there’s nothing there but the overgrown ivy; then one dark eye, glittering like a thieved ruby.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

In the heart of the downtown section, a stretch of cobblestone streets:
they stop motorists from gunning through them at full throttle.

Don’t put the cart before the horse, don’t jump from the frying
pan into the fire: in other words, don’t go at full throttle.

Who finds caution in the wind? Who gleans the stitches
from the timid rhyme? Not the young, going at full throttle.

In the school parking lot, I skirt the second speed bump when I can. They’re there
for a reason, says the youngest daughter: to keep you from going full throttle.

On my bookshelf is a History of Doubt, filled with stories of ancient thinkers and
medieval cynics: anyone who might have said Not so fast, not at full throttle.

Who pays heed anymore? Three birds in succession thunk against the glass. Which
one is pursuer, which pursued? Danger and excitement. Dance at full throttle.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

like a leaf sprung to life—
twang of a string, floater that asks
to be reeled in at the end of a line.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Overheard lunchtime conversation: Longing is a color, just as much as a state.
And as I turn to the window, goldfinches pass through the trees like a yellow wind.

Along the boardwalk, shops sell puka shell bracelets, batik sarongs, T-shirts silkscreened
Virginia is for Lovers. Skateboarders on the street, zipping by like day-glo wind.

See the parasailers aloft in their tethered vests. Waves roll in and crash, then roll out
again. The beach is dotted with collapsible tents, ochre-striped flaps open to the wind.

From someone’s radio, the dance theme from Slumdog Millionaire. I’m seized by
a craving for lemon rice, mango chutney, some hint of chillies and saffron in the wind.

Some days are impermeable, asbestos. Other days spontaneously combust. The thing is,
there’s no warning panel with lights flashing yellow, no siren blaring into the wind.

Amarillo‘s another name for the blossom of the Caraiba, Tabebuia, or Araguaney:
long-throated flowers emerge after leaves have shed, rustling like gold foil in the wind.

Dear sunflower, you are too faithful, following that scorcher all day— Has he ever
bent to kiss your hot golden head? No? But rain’s been kind; and the cool wind.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

We’ll remember this as the summer when hail rained down as large as peaches, when whips of lightning tore through the humid air. We’ll remember this as the summer when we woke and looked up to see a sky filled with clouds in the shape of women’s pendulous breasts; when every day as we walked from one end of the field to the other, it seemed the cicadas’ agitated chirping might rival the noise of oncoming trains. And we’ll remember this as the summer of startling sightings: wild birds far from home, a man-of-war sailing into the harbor, cannons firing in salute; and a body washed up on the river’s edge. A cerulean warbler sang incessantly in the yard, and doctor’s reports recommended the cutting away of some parts. We’ll remember this as the summer of swiftest change: how we walked, mornings and evenings, past fences overgrown with wisteria— their opulent scent already balanced on the rim of decay.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

“Now learn this lesson from the fig tree: As soon as its twigs get tender and its leaves come out, you know that summer is near…” Matthew 24: 32

—and the clouds gather into scrolls over the foothills
—and the crepe myrtles fall on the pavements as if it were spring
—and meadow plants turn limp, while some stiffen as though they were bristles in winter
—and the river’s surface is flecked with bits of foam and plastic, and shadows of wading birds
—and passing trains pitch their whistle to the winds
—and afternoons are hardest, for their shore is the in-between

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.