Queen of all she surveys, the snow dog (formerly the apartment dog) gazes out at the wintry wilderness. The forest awakens something primal in her, a creature of sinew and teeth, ancient blood beating in her ears. (Sled and parkas Photoshopped out of picture.)

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I was very recently introduced to the poetry of Maria Luisa Aguilar-Carino (now Luisa Igloria), a professor at Old Dominion University). (I went online and tried to buy up everything I could by her.)

I’m bad with describing — heck, understanding — poetry in general, but this is fine, fine stuff. This is an excerpt (the last stanza) from “Familiar,” anthologized in Nick Carbo’s Returning a Borrowed Tongue: An Anthology of Filipino and Filipino American Poetry:

In the evenings my ears fold
close, against the clatter of dishes,
the sing-song of voices
bordering the road. I murmur
these incantations, spell words
on blue-lined paper: bizarre, irrevocable,
reproach, syllable, steerage, ballast,
gesture — taking them with me to sleep
like furry animals, hiding them
in my mouth like pebbles
newly dug up from the moonlit
garden — taste of earth,
crushed bones, verbena, flared
nasturtiums.

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