Tag: Luisa A. Igloria

Buttonhole: wound, opening trellised over
with such careful stitches. If the edging
is even and well-spaced, and the knot hidden
from view, the garment is practically knighted.
Tell me about frog closures, keyhole backs,
pin-tucks that seam close and sigh open;
the patient work of the foot, the hours
pressed on the treadle. Romance of voile,
the pragmatism of cotton, the tensile
wisdom of wool and lace. At the mall,
trendy with mirrors and mannequins:
a thousand blemishes sparkle, but
everything is hungry for more.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

The eye of a needle is tiny. The threader’s wire hooks a whip of floss and passes it through the door of a wool-gray sky. If I were a camel, would I have known where the fissure lay? The word heather means variegated, shaded off in parts, whimsy not cut out of the same sheen or sheet or cloth. Like how some dreams are stippled and some are plain. Like how some joys are miles and miles of gossamer, unfazed by the idea of seams. I drive past neighborhoods in the afternoons, as children are just starting to walk home from school. Brick houses like rust-colored skeins line the streets, flagstone walks edged by monkey grass. Let me not forget what I’ve always wanted, so hard its edges strain against the remnants of fabric scraps.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Is there dew on the grass, are they tears
of a lover that time forgot?

Is there milk in the cup, fresh
skin formed on the nourishing fat?

Is the seed worked free of rock,
and has it brought its tattered shirt?

Is the grout in the bathroom stall
now a legible trail?

Is the pear tree warm or cold? Beneath its arms,
does it wish for a reader of long Russian novels?

Is the sill wide enough for a window
to rest, for a wing to roost?

Is the woman headed toward the train
station, does she hear the warning bell?

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Rock

On the other side
of the world, a nun
ponders rain that is
beginningless—
which makes me remember
the first of many games
that women in the family
would play with every new
baby: close, open, close,
open— by turns
the fist is soft as new
paper, then layered flint
cropped from a lunar crater.

Paper

When I pried
the orange’s clear
segment from its rind
and mesh of membrane,
a spray of volatile oil
arced into the air.

Scissors

Loggers clear trees along
the powerline to make way
for a new parking structure
at the mall. You
could not see the shore
from here— fish in nets
a kind of dappled wealth,
even a little change dropped
back into the water.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Some children are pounding leaves
on the stones— slippery
leaves of the hibiscus, a stray

petal streaked with coral. A little
scatter of detergent and water, a bent
piece of wire— and late afternoon

light floods through a prism
of bubbles. The blur in the road
is the dust raised by feet rushing

then jumping into packing boxes.
World of makeshift joys: thunk
of a fruit stone meeting its sling-

shot target, and from an upstairs
window, the ice cream bell sound
of a typewriter carriage return.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

There are these questions
arising as if out of nowhere,

warm-blooded and full as the wind’s
bodied passage— That morning,

for instance: when the mother,
oracular, slumped to the floor

after heaving handfuls of still-
green bananas into the air like missiles.

And the stalk from which they were gleaned
quivered against the doorframe, like a bow

with which arrows had just been launched.
What word from the mother-in-law

hung in the air preceding this
onslaught? My ear quickens

to the humming of bees in the backyard,
radio signals of sticky love multiplied

in each golden cell. Some things pass
without saying from woman to woman:

shreds of song, pennants
of explosive radiance.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

In the seam between January
and the tentative unfolding

of the leap year month, textures
overlap, blur into each other:

the milk-blue of dawn with
the opal light that lives

somewhere around seven o’clock;
the outline of a feather

shed by a body that’s flown
in the direction of the sun.

White and grey speckles
on a field of tawny brown:

costume discarded by whatever
wanted to scale the branches.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

too many memories crowd into the room tonight.

One wants to lie across the entire length
of the bed. Another is angry as ever, punching

a hole in the wall and taking out a length of pipe,
rust blooming along its waistline. Consequently,

when a few of them take the first hot shower
they’ve had in years, the water starts leaking

to the floor. I know I shouldn’t feed them:
not a piece of toast, not even a drink of water.

But already they’ve found the cabinet with
the bottles of Merlot and Vinho Verde, the stash

of leftover Christmas cookies. I push the window
open and heave a sigh. There’s a moon shaped

like a hammock in the sky. In the air, a metallic
tang. And more than a few hours left till morning.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Pool of melted tallow in the pewter dish.
Bar of laundry soap scraped across the palms
of the woman washing clothes on the stoop.
An old man walks out of his house at the same
time each day and up the road, dazzling
in his white suit and panama hat. Where
does he go? Drawn blinds with their slightly
sticky film of dust: behind them, a glass-topped
table and two wrought iron chairs. If this
is a Gabriel Garcia Marquez novel, the screech
of a parrot from the patio follows
the pattern of light splayed across the stones.
Sheer curtains carry the smell of almond skins.
There are children hidden from view on the balcony.
The cook fingers the leaves fluttering like pages
in a book of tripe. Plump ends of chick peas,
upturned like the white flame of a deer’s tail.
Long afternoons. The smell of cotton everywhere.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

“…Who shall give a lover any law?”
~ Chaucer, “The Knight’s Tale” (Canterbury Tales)

The squeals up in a tree are of a squirrel
fighting off a suitor; perhaps a paramour?

The usage of this word, Middle English,
the 1800s, is for the sake of love, par amour.

I like the entry in Webster’s 1913 Dictionary:
lit, by or with love, from the Fr. par amour.

Such beautiful words: when did they turn
illicit, derogatory? Stripped of armor,

title, role, various defenses— beneath the flesh
is the heart’s taut muscle, matched to any matador.

Songs of courtly love all aim at the impossible:
the beloved out of reach, the hapless troubadour.

In Spanish, querida means dearest one. When did it come
to signify poor fallen dove, secret paramour?

Wong Kar-wai’s film has neighbors thinking the lonely journalist
and the secretary from the shipping company are paramours.

The screen’s painted in tones of broody red, shades of jazz
in the background. The message: love story with no guarantor.

The man whispered the secret that he could not share
in a hollow in a tree, and covered it with mud: nevermore.

Is it my voice you hear in your head, when you first rise?
I loved her first ere thou, wrote Chaucer, for par amour.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.