1. Ghazal of Wild Things

    Fried locust wings in peppery vinegar, savory
    more than sweet: think of the possibilities.

    That documentary on donkeys as the new
    food craze in China– who knew of the possibilities?

    Once I ate a spoonful of cold ants’ eggs from Abra:
    tart honeyed bites, an appetizer possibility?

    The mouth is paved with tastebuds: a Union
    Station of innumerable possibilities.

    Sometimes the simplest broth works as nostalgic
    elixir– stirring up returns no longer as impossibilities.

    Three stalks of wild garlic in the yard, surviving winter, seasoning
    the snow. Tell the girl in the underworld of that possibility.

    – Luisa A. Igloria
    02 27 2011
    Sent via my Blackberry

  2. Spikes of garlic shaped like the moons of finger nails,
    are translucent dreams on a rainy night;
    they carry scents of forbidden desire,
    flavor ribbons of wetness that flute down the window pane.


    Abuela, she of the magic tales and prayer,
    prescribed bowls of garlic for all ailment and sundry:
    reason enough for her to till a large plot of this clove,

    seasoning not only the day’s repast but also
    our old home where–without that distinct scent–
    no one would truly be home. O, grandmother,

    in your eternal garden where your enchanted
    hammock must dangle between the tallest oaktrees,
    send this ill Earth some crescent cloves, crush them,

    and gently wrap them around the hearts of men
    who have, like Cain, cavalierly killed their brothers,
    fathers their daughters, mothers their sons and lovers.

    Mamita, in our yard, three stalks of garlic have kept
    their heads above the snow in what is now a long
    and cruel winter. In garlic we trust, abuela querida.

    —Albert B. Casuga
    Mississauga, Ont. 02-27-11

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