Author: Luisa A. Igloria

A-one, and a-two, and a-three
gray squirrels in slow-
motion chase:

this is when they come
into heat, as the restless town
sifts under powdered sugar.

Where is the rich broth with marrow,
where is the noisy brass gong?
Windowpanes color with steam.

Something celery and something orange
marry above the stove’s blue flame.
Somewhere a ledge of brittle ice

softens to syrup. You don’t see,
but sunlight’s shade turns
acetylene. A woman

steps out of her bath
kimono, and cranes stretch
tremulous above the grass.

What is that tinkle of brass
bells? New snow cascading
from branches, like wedding veils.

—Luisa A. Igloria
01.12.2011

In response to today’s Morning Porch entry.

Closer, says the ear to the voice—

Closer, says the face to the water—

Closer, says the throat to the song—

Closer, say the tissues to the cell—

Closer, says the mouth to the flame—

Closer, says the hare to the hound—

Closer, says the lilac to the unsuspecting chickadees—

Closer, say the hundred leaves to the twig—

Closer, says the estocada to the bull—

Closer, says the red heart to the muelta,
fluttering to the ground in a rain of roses.

—Luisa A. Igloria
01.11.2011

In response to today’s Morning Porch entry.

On this house plan sketched on college ruled paper, I study the four directions—north and south, east and west, the placement of doors and stairs. My daughter’s partner says rooms and hallways must open and close on auspicious spaces, in order not to create voids. Windows must open not only to the sun and rain but also to the winds of fortune. What spells do the curlicues of dried brome grass press for us to read against the snow? To ward off evil, she lists for us water and crystal, wood and stone, mirrors and discs inlaid with blue glass eyes. In how many languages could we recite the more than 99 names of God? Because the eaves of heaven are steep, we need all the help we can get: celestial guardians to sit at the east, amulets for wealth in the foyer and on windowsills. A sword to guard the front facing north; and from the southeastern end of the garden, imagine a merchant ship steered by the immortals: laden with goods, coming to rest in the middle of your house.

—Luisa A. Igloria
01.10.2011

In response to today’s Morning Porch entry.

“To win all the tricks by a vole.” —Alexander Pope

Drifting snow, snow that blurs the edges of the world again so that all I can think of this morning is how fragile the line between beauty and sorrow. Here is the edge of glass, here is the cold screen mesh, here is the print on the frame. A snow dervish whirls on the side of the road and travels a dozen feet before collapsing. How the little ghosts of dog roses and hellebores rise like wraiths from the ground as if to spite us, how beneath the John Clare roses, the Burgundy Icebergs and the Brittens, their plain clustered heads more deeply touch me. Just yesterday, a child no older than my own rose in the morning to rinse her face— did she tether a scarf around her neck to go into the day, did she go down her front walk and ride into town, one arm of the sky’s burnished parenthesis drawing her closer, back to the day of her birth? Drifting snow, just deep enough to provide cover for voles. Drifting snow, drifting through channels; later, battering our windowpanes with pellets of ice.

—Luisa A. Igloria
01.09.2011

In response to today’s Morning Porch entry.

Somewhere in Plummer’s Hollow,
a man sits clipping his nails
this morning. There

is snowfall, light as down.
Much further east, uncommon frost
recedes into the hills of Atok, Benguet,

studding the heads of cabbages,
stalks of wild grass, flowers.
Wasn’t it there

conquistadors sought
the fabled orange tree that flew or fell
from El Dorado? Under the earth

are jars of ore and silver.
Little flotillas of creased paper
go down the creek. Sometimes

it seems the past might never
have happened. But even here
the ends of threads are gathered;

the lines on the horizon draw
this world into the other one.
And back and forth the shuttle goes.

—Luisa A. Igloria
01.07.2011

In response to today’s Morning Porch entry. Atok, Benguet is a mountainous municipality in western Luzon northeast of Baguio City, where Luisa grew up. Due to the elevation, occasional frosts occur, with devastating effects on vegetable growers.

Paired or unpaired, all in the world
yet moves forward—

A smudge of ash falls through the still air, fragile as a snowflake; nuns’
shoes of molded blue rest by the temple doorstep, inscribed
with names and messages.

Together, hundreds of fish that have perished in the rivers;
thousands of red-winged birds tumbling out of the sky.

Today, only the sun smolders on the ridgetop
between columns of oaks.

Even this not-speaking is speaking to me.
And tomorrow?

Nothing to do but steel the heart again for the crossing;
wait for the fog to clear.

—Luisa A. Igloria
01.06.2011

In response to today’s Morning Porch entry.

Anything voiced against the wall of a whispering gallery will be audible to a listener standing diagonally on the other side. Look for a place where two pathways intersect, where a vaulted roof forms a shallow dome. In a story I once read, a man spoke just under his breath to a woman across the room. His secret kindled like a flame as though he were by her side, or inside. The sides of the cupola are blue with shadow, but the pillars have the warm tint of citrus. Marble is veined, and not always cold. You’d think a low murmur might carry faster through uninhabited rooms; but it finds its way, even in a thicker medium. Just fling a window open. Let the heavy curtains learn to babble in the wind. Listen to the low-key chattering match of nuthatches a hundred yards apart. Outside, flakes fall through the air—just enough to leave the barest fur on the ground, like a leaf’s glaucous bloom.

—Luisa A. Igloria
01.05.2011

In response to today’s Morning Porch entry.

Three of my four music teachers were nuns. And the neighborhood referred to my very first piano teacher as the spinster— she wore dark clothing, sensible shoes, agua de colonia flor de naranja. She lived alone, with only part-time help; she never told anyone where she went in summer: “Soltera”. But I’ve always preferred this nod to solitude, to single-tude; the way impudent “l” pushes away from gossipy “o” and fakely coy “e” to bump up against “t” as if to say— So what? Years later, I’m still amazed at how much they knew: the libraries of trills and crescendos hidden underneath wimples and lace shawls; the ways they coaxed feeling from generations of wooden pupils surreptitiously kicking their legs into the piano’s soundboard. Listen to the advance of notes in this passage, they’d say: surf shirring the sand, or horses’ hooves soon coming around the bend. And then the clearing drenched in the scent of violets, which moves you inexplicably to tears. From my bedroom window, the chair backs in the garden are scrolled like treble clefs. It’s still mostly dark when the first faint pink spot appears in the clouds. I lie within that brief interval of solitude just before the day advances, slow and red. A raven croaks.

—Luisa A. Igloria
01.04.2011

In response to today’s Morning Porch entry.