Poems
REGARDING HISTORY
A pair of trees on one side of the walk, leaning
now into the wind in a stance we’d call involuntary—
I can see them from the kitchen window, as I take meat
out of the oven and hold my palms above the crust, darkened
with burnt sugar. Nailed with cloves, small earth of flesh
still smoldering from its furnace. In truth I want to take it
into the garden and bury it in soil. There are times
I grow weary of coaxing music from silence, silence
from the circularity of logic, logic from the artifact.
Then, the possibilities of sunlight are less attractive
than baying at the moon. I want to take your face
in my hands, grow sweet from what it tells, tend
how it leans and turns, trellis or vine of morning-glory.
I wish for limbs pared to muscle, to climb away from
chance and all its missed appointments, its half-drunk
cups of coffee. Tell me what I’ll find, in this
early period at the beginning of a century.
Tell me what I’ll find, stumbling into a boat
and pushing off into the year’s last dark hours.
From Trill & Mordent
© September 2005, by Luisa Igloria
BACK TO TOP
|
