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  • Field Planted to Winter Grass
  • Luisa Igloria

dusted with frost. I can see where hunters clothed in orange and camouflage move, smell the receding tracks of deer. I know better now; I wouldn't tell. What wants to be ensnared will come into the circle of its own decisiveness. Karma is only another name for longing, the soul returning and returning, begging to be loved or taken. Batter my heart, taps the tree on the windowpane. There are those who believe wild creatures shelter the souls of those who have gone hiding. Who lives now in the felled oak used for target practice, its bark rampant with the imprint of shells, its trunk large as a parlor where couples might turn and curtsy, careful of the porcelain? Near the mouth of the Potomac, I signed myself away in a thunderstorm. Rain beat the room into a cave and me into an animal, sick with incurable sadness. I murmured words in another language. I called a spell to my soul but another heard and answered. What legend tells how some god's spit made the sound where lighthouses stand, scattering feeble signatures of light? It's the onset of winter, the earth beginning to darken its heart. Like a paradox, each blade of grass lined with these soft forms of ice. You see how I'm trembling and antlered, altered at the edge of the field, sighted.