Luisa A. Igloria

Do not look for illumination. Mostly there is the twitch that precedes gesture, the button’s resistance as you try to slide it into the too-small aperture slashed in a finger-width of cloth. And yes, I know it is hard to disregard how tiny and even the stitches are, how they ring the space that had to be opened first to make way for the fastening. Don’t feel betrayed if there is only silence in the trees, months of near continuous rain. Thoughts sometimes rush to collect at the bottom of the drain pipe. Other times they vaporize in the heat, fall for the voices warbling discontent. When it rains, I am oddly comforted. The rain soaks through, asks me to give up a little of myself. Asks me not to be so hard.

And the high winds bore down, and the sky built up that grey wall:derecho. The taverns by the sea closed their shutters, and the stands selling battered fries,derecho. On the boardwalk, pieces of salt-water taffy, half- eaten funnel cakes oozing grease and cream:derecho. And the people on every highway, panicked, sought a clear route for their exodus:derecho. What’s in your emergency backpack? Beef jerky, mineral water, flashlight, solar cells? Snap in the sound of derecho. Yesterday, white and blue sails pretty on the water; sharp glint of skyscraper glass. Then this derecho.