Tag: Luisa A. Igloria

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.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

I buy tomatoes, I buy onions, I buy tea.
The pantry is stocked with sweets but my tongue
needs savory. Here is my troublesome past
come back— it coasts across the interstate
without brakes, slaps down the bill, rearranges
all the furniture. Out there, a white haze smudges
the bank above the road. A brown thrasher in the yard
mouths everything twice: Consider, consider.
What I imagine he says is good advice.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

And after winter, the plants I thought
had surely perished in hardscrabble
soil, now signal their return: once dry,
the arms of the hydrangea now push
tight-woven clusters of veined green;
along the ground, runners roll aside
the stones and begin to edge the walk.
Everywhere, aspect of light that hid before
behind curtains of fog or sheets of snow
or blinding rain. Vivid gash of peonies,
new swelling throats— lilies speckling
with pollen dust: as though a season
wracked turns now from a long fast.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Malleable heart, mouth open to the sky and rain,
my discipline is to learn your one singing note—

to fish it out of the depths of a fountain like a penny
someone tossed there long ago, or like the sun

in hiding. Not so easy to twirl the simple
wooden mallet, learn how the wrist must circle

lightly around the rim; or when it comes, how to loft
its brassy bangle, let it eddy across the grass.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

I see a trace of moon yet, though morning
is fully on its way. What flutters through
the screens of bamboo as if on the strains
of a highland flute? I love those times
when the body has not completely left
what embraced it last; when coming
down the stairs it glances back at the bed
where it lay, reviewing the rousing
and the gathering up of things, the lingering
farewell; unlatching doors, going out
and walking past the jasmine bushes just
starting to put out their little stars.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Who ordered rain? Who ordered tea?
Order ham and croissants, bubbly with cheese.
Order sheets of fondant. Practice French.
Say tuileries, say pamplemousse.
Tuck your hair behind your ear, pick up
your fork, don your bib. Pick up the hot
crust with your fingers. Don’t eat like a bird.
Don’t you love ribs? Hand me a plum.
What’s that wrapped in paper?
Who heard? The leaves are buzzing
with news of the world.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.