 | Luisa A. Igloria Jan 1 | ~ after Issa One screw falls off the doorbell; it's somewhere in the grass, not chiming. We no longer write checks—no danger now of getting the year wrong. Colder and colder, but only cloudy. We snip lacy paper into snowflakes. Oysters drawn up from the river depths. Find the hinge with the point of a knife. It's always easiest after the yield. Then they slide sweet down the throat. New moon soon after the new year. Raise a glass with hints of oak, cardamom, allspice. Let's make no resolutions— after all, we are here. Let's be here. | | | |
