Tag: Luisa A. Igloria

Take me back: I tell you I have come too far
from myself. A pebble drops into a well
but I cannot hear its thunk to let me know
it has come to rest. From the kitchen in my
childhood home, I could see the church belfry
clear across the roofs of houses, and the thin
grey cord of birds unspooling overhead at dusk—
Imagine the carillonneur in his wooden cabin
under the bells, striking out the music with his feet
and fists. Through the green wall of woods today,
the dawn sky leaks through a hundred holes.
I rummage in the bowl of random fortunes
and my hand picks out only those with no
coherent answer: Do not walk by yourself
in the dark. Or, It is better to have a hen
tomorrow than an egg today. And my heart
after all remains a sieve— Come sorrow; come love;
come mutable chord and struck descant of things.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Every once in a while the branches part
and there is a gleaming splinter of light–

just enough to nick the rough bark, make it seem
like the scritch of a match head had birthed

its copper sides and these rich, fluttering
halos of green. Hard to court abundance,

hard to keep it— And yet, here is a feather
left behind by the crested bird, the silken pods

from the honey locusts, vermillion threads
pulled from the frayed tapestry: what surged

like ripeness once, continues to show its face—
shy homeless waif, knocking again on your door.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

At an airport many years ago, as people rushed
toward their connections, so bent on where
they needed to go, so sure of what they were
leaving behind— What was it I glimpsed through
the sliding doors? Indecisive figure on the sidewalk,
head tilted one way, body tilted the other: bird
listening for the coming of rain the same way
I feel the tug, mid-morning, of bell-like tones
that filter through the screen, warning of weather
even as the sun pours through and through.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Do you remember I told you about the afternoon
in the coffeeshop, the heat another layer of white
laid across the stucco, the silver samovars lined up
on the shelf next to blue and yellow ceramic bowls,
the espresso machine hissing in the corner?
Distracted by so much warmth, I asked the girl
tending the register if I could draw the sheer
Roman shades partway down. And then
the man walked in, mobile phone at his ear,
hips sheathed in denim; white shirt off-setting
a burnished face, the grey hair at his temples.
He carried a gift bag swathed in ribbons. Outside,
tiger and spicebush swallowtails splayed open
their wings, circled, then rested on the white lilac.
The woman he was waiting for arrived.
They took the table farthest from the windows.
They held hands, they kissed. Birthday?
smiled the girl bringing cappuccinos and napkins.
The woman smoothed her dark brown hair.
Packing up my papers and my books and pens,
I peered at the sky. If it had rained right then
I might have gone out under the trees to be
like the lover and his lover, awash in that murmur
passing like a single flower between them.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Dear invisible hand scribing the surface
of this vinyl platter, you usher in a new
soundtrack: buzz of a black-throated warbler,
catbird’s brassy solo. All cool and nonchalant—
but underneath: the faltering notes of what
we want so much to say but can’t. Fluttering
skin, stroked by feathers. If I begged you to stay,
if I begged you to take me away? What then?
But I don’t. In the evenings, the crickets repeat
their two-note arias. Under the trees, fireflies
send stuttering messages across the dark.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Nubbin of green, tremulous branch
of a tulip poplar— how fast the careen
from thought to dream.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

rising in the morning to turn off the alarm
—from the old French A l’arme, meaning to
the arms, though I have hardly any weapons
but these limbs, once burnished and nearly
lovely in their prime; my wits (still for the most
part, gratefully, intact); and this all too common
yearning for ease and rest, pleasure and kind words…
Listen to the small feathered body singing in the dark,
its faltering lyric familiar as the prayer I’ll don
as armor for the day: oh faith, oh love, oh courage.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.