Oil of cloves, oil of ginger-
root skimmed from droppings
of fat melted in the gullet of a wok:
as you say, like dissolves like: the elixirs
and compounds of a chemistry escaping
as vapors married in the pestle's mouth.
I think of the way light, like other volatile
substances, will enter the pores and flower
there: a trail of ethers, migrant injuries,
sifted powders whose essences are gathered
in fragrant knots and thrown into the fire.
Leaves that wilt and yield their sting of salt
and lace to the waiting tongue, shoots
of the pliant bamboo. Summons of taste,
the welt inflicted by the star anise. I sing
about the throat, the nightingale's house
that rings and chimes to spite
what it has witnessed. The tongue
is not the only bed where speech
lies and is taken, resides. Released,
it flies away and builds nests of feathers
plucked raw from the breast, lines it
with the red hulls encasing annatto seeds
and their inky rattle.
One day I sat on a rock
regarding water, an island in the distance
whose mountains were serrated edges:
a kitchen knife laid flat on its back, mussel
shell forced open, the blue and orange
sheen of its torn lips. The waves brought me
a blowfish, limp as discarded rubbers that often
litter the beach: all poison bleached out of it,
unless the skin harbors secrets long past death
the way sandalwood prayer beads embrace scent
and wrap the wrist, so that even in darkness
the soul might be led.
I turn my face to the wall, thinking of cells
and their intricate etymology, the way a spore
blooms and stipples my ceilings with maps
that fade before they can be completed. If I could
distill their mystery in flasks of ruby and saffron
and learn their sacrament or science, I might find
a way to string this body of beaten elements--this
calculus of restless bones that dream continually
of rising, caroling their frank catalogue of ardent
forms and alloys from their discolored, yeasty bed.
(c)Luisa Igloria 2005
from Trill & Mordent
WorldTech Editions
Cincinnati, OH