of morning--of lying naked in bed till noon
amid the sweet, unhurried disarray of discarded
covers, just listening to the slow wheel of a summer
day's noises revolve overhead, the ceiling fan on its lowest
setting. I would do the same but for the remembered
voice of my mother, snapping like castanets
in my ears: no girl should stay abed so late when
so much needs doing. What did it matter it was
Saturday? I darted out from under the gauze of
mosquito netting to dust the furniture and boil rice,
bleach laundry in the sun and water the drooping
ginger lilies, the marigolds, those bitter queens in ruffled
finery. It did no good to envy children in the street,
playing at marbles or with their invented toys--most likely
they had done their share of chores or would soon
be led, under the sign of a pinched earlobe. And so
there are some things I will always know: the line
on my finger by which to measure the right
amount of water for the perfect pot of rice, how to turn
the dullest leftovers into a dish so unforgettable
my friends will beg and beg, years after, for the recipe,
how to tell by the shape of clouds which fish will be
plentiful at market, or recognize by smells that carry
on the air if it is rain tomorrow or a scorching day.
Certain winged insects crawl out of their hiding places
to tell the change of seasons, and in complete
abandon throw themselves on any surface that
resembles water. When finally rain comes, then ice,
sometimes there is a little more time for wintering
and dreaming. The sky deepens now as I write this;
it's late afternoon and I'm near the bottom
of the cup of coffee I've been nursing
since noon, near the end of this poem
which has become a kind of homage to stilled
time, and also answer to its calling. Even my mother,
faithful disciple of womanly industry, succumbed
and listened. One rain-washed afternoon when the porch
steps were flooded with a surplus of peach and yellow
petals, I looked through the keyhole of my parents'
bedroom inside an unrepentant hour: her thighs,
creamy magnolias pressed open on the sheets,
everything so still, even the clock on the mantel
that did nothing to hurry, though it marked
from time to time the passing tremors.
(c)Luisa Igloria 2005
from Trill and Mordent
published by Word Tech Editions
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