| Luisa A. Igloria January 31 | The past is never dead. Moths swarm the porch lamps, announcing the arrival of your ancestors. How could they not be otherworldly, clothed as they are in stipple-light, lens-light, beaded mesh-curtain-light? They trace flight paths like calligraphy; these could be messages, if you only knew how to read them. Why leave the light on, someone asks; won't they just keep coming back, instead of continuing their journey? If there's more to life than an afterlife, that means even their silences could be bridges. But if there's no more home for all of us to return to, perhaps they weave hammocks in which to sleep— hammocks to cocoon our soft, unfinished bodies. | | | |
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