1. Vigil

    “… We are such stuff
    As dreams are made on…”
    ~ William Shakespeare, from “The Tempest”

    A wasp the size of a chocolate-covered espresso bean
    bangs against the kitchen window three times
    in a row, as if he too were a penitent. In the corner

    of my eye, mercurial flashing of a wing: a winter wren.
    Today’s the day groups of flagellants might have gone
    to the river to rinse the blood crusted on their backs,

    the stripes where cord and metal nicked elastic
    flesh. Such pageantries of suffering, our little
    lives rounding toward the dream of sleep and rest,

    their waters all-forgiving… Meanwhile, owls fly
    straight into the greying dusk, wide-eyed, as though
    released from any doubtfulness. Muffled flight

    and snatch in mid-air, quick skim over pond water:
    some things are meant to be eaten whole. We find
    any parts leftover in the morning like relics

    among the stones at a martyr’s tomb– little
    winding sheet of tattered wing, clean bone of an eye
    socket; a halo of dust where it all came to pass.

    ~ Luisa A. Igloria
    04 23 2011

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