BY LUISA A. IGLORIA
Everything returns to a source:
gladness to the tree, fruit
to the cradle, flesh from the bone.
Water lashes the roofs in the town,
but also the pink and yellow roses
that appear as if out of nowhere
in a corner of the garden,
where once there was only
a hard rectangle of dirt. But
ask yourself how you truly feel,
what the bones in your ribcage
might be singing
in the silence of night
to each other, as they hold
the stricken heart in place.