LUISA A. IGLORIA

 For October as Filipino American History Month:

A Lovely Postcard from Luisa A. Igloria 

I was charmed by Luisa’s postcard, an original artwork (pen and ink and watercolor). She says she “was trying out a little gift set of Beam watercolors from my daughter Julia.”

 

The postcard’s image portrays a branch from the fig tree in Luisa’s backyard, about which she says, “We didn't plant it, but when our realtor was showing us houses 12 years ago, we decided on this house partly because it seemed to augur well that there was this fig tree in the back. It always gives us such generous harvests of fruit through the summer, and we share it with neighbors and friends. We do have a tiny back deck where we like to sit and just chill— I've worked on my writing as well as my class work, and we also enjoy eating, al fresco there.”

 

Luisa adds, “I have a friend, Stella Pomianek—she's FilAm, and she owns Cafe Stella here in Norfolk. I bring her perhaps close to 200-300 figs every summer at the height of fig season, and she turns them into wonderful desserts. And we as well go crazy with fig recipes. I’m sharing a flourless chocolate cake adorned with figs which my daughter Gabriela made in late summer —"

Delicious! And here’s “another favorite fig thing we whip up is pizza with white sauce, red onions, garlic, figs, bacon, and parmesan.”

 

Never has a postcard and its context made me so ravishingly hungry! Needless to say, Luisa also has written several poems on figs. Here’s a wondrous example (with its stupendous last two sentences):

 

GATHERING FIGS IN THE RAIN

In the rain, globe after globe
of shimmering purple; high up,
tenanted in broad scalloped robes—

No rungs for the feet, no stirrups;
thus always the one the heart really wants
is just out of reach. Jewel on a dark stub,

ticket to certain sweetness: no other response
seems fitting except to peel you off the branch,
fingertips glossed with drops of sap. Chance

turned into choice: green that held out until blanched
in high summer heat, then cooled as clouds rolled in,
pregnant, unable to stay in their own skin. Stanch

the wound that bleeds by pressing down and touching—
Teardrop shape, honeyed light bulb. What you chose and what
dropped into your hand. Stand still. The rain is thinning.

 

The poem appears in Luisa’s MAPS FOR MIGRANTS AND GHOSTS (Southern Illinois University Press, 2020). We thank her for sharing her and her daughters' gifts with us!