Luisa A. Igloria

Contingency

In the still warm light of summer evenings, dragonfly wings
like gathered teardrops, veined with the same fine mesh

that brushes our faces. Sheer as cloth thrown over the form
of some other life, pulsing in mid-air without regret,

without regard for applause. Between times our bodies come
together like seams so that living matters, so we remember

the heart ringed by fire and not the suffering stitched
generous in the gaps. The room shimmers like calcite.

Our mouths are paved with sandalwood, with jasmine.
Eventually the wicks burn down to the metal plate; each

flame’s a doorway to pinch open with bare fingertips. Everyone,
dear heart, everyone lives in the shadow of the Sacre Coeur.