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Threshold
Threshold enters a landscape of seemingly perpetual in-between, crossing from conventionality to queerness; exploring the fluidity of gender; and translating the hard hold of family. The collection meditates on passageways and what it means to arrive at, and pierce through, thresholds―between countries, past and future, and the threat and security of love.
100 pages, Paperback
Published October 3, 2017
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Displaying 1 - 9 of 9 reviews
January 19, 2019
My heart swells reading so much of this collection. It feels like porcelain in the mind — delicate, crafted just so, holding in place one small shape out of many possibilities.
In its broadest sense, and to the extent that literature must be classified and filed into catalogues, this is a poetry of immigration & loss & the shame and beauty of queerness. In its truest sense, it is a collection of moments carefully observed and attended to, of a particular life’s pivotal even if banal moments of transformation and passing. It is exquisite. Legaspi writes with tenderness and clarity. He does not skirt around the grit and dirt, but treats it as plainly and gently as that which is soft. It’s all here.
The final poem, “Vows (for a gay wedding)” brought me to tears, and may make an appearance at my wedding should I ever. I am very excited to read more of Legaspi’s poetry.
In its broadest sense, and to the extent that literature must be classified and filed into catalogues, this is a poetry of immigration & loss & the shame and beauty of queerness. In its truest sense, it is a collection of moments carefully observed and attended to, of a particular life’s pivotal even if banal moments of transformation and passing. It is exquisite. Legaspi writes with tenderness and clarity. He does not skirt around the grit and dirt, but treats it as plainly and gently as that which is soft. It’s all here.
The final poem, “Vows (for a gay wedding)” brought me to tears, and may make an appearance at my wedding should I ever. I am very excited to read more of Legaspi’s poetry.
February 6, 2018
These poems are lavish and lush in detail, every observation ornamented, from the dresses in "At the Bridal Shop" ("sleeves drape / like limp, pressed sheets of candied fruits, / ribbons fluttering pale leaves") to the boy watching other boys climb trees in "Am I Not?" ("that tremulous, salty-skinned boy / who trails like jet stream along bark and anxious leaves"). There's so much pleasure in this collection, Whitmanesque in its expansive embrace of the beloved, the wounded, the world.
January 4, 2022
His moon-white torso flashes like strobe lights
kisses plump as crushed tomatoes
He Anglosaxoned me, the divinity of his /
England flooded my mouth with light.
A conundrum this union /
of identical bodies, fusing in hungry, irrational /
ways, squeezing a camel through a needle’s eye: /
a defiance of nature, which is nature
We entered a threshold of revelation
I then realized I am not afraid of men, /
nor the masculine hyperbole of men who love men, /
and my father was not in that hotel room. //
I felt the archipelagic islands had gathered— /
a wholeness like Pangaea, when Earth was young, /
its landmass unimaginably one.
I am learning beauty, I’m learning to be /
feminine, and shoulder the cruelties accorded /
a boy with flair.
and my father who remains //
to be seen
shrieking like wives
maids who all looked like our aunts
those faultless, omnivorous, gluttonous ungulates
he possesses the gibbon- /
grace of Filipino coconut boys
I am stolen glances, surface /
scratcher, light’s glimmer
eggshells like shattered light
Am I no one’s Promised Land, of distant adoration?
One of Darwin’s fittest, the tortoise
In the pale universe /
of a hospital bed
But my father /
has lived his life as he knows how: /
of selfishness, of absence, of solitude.
Nearby /
the white roses begin to curl in their water.
My mother never wanted a rose garden.
High pitches & giggles & squeals
my disparaged humming body
his hips undulating /
like a sidewinder, or /
a deadlier reptile.
vinegary men drinking /
their salaries and livers /
away
“Dogs of Childhood”
She was the most beautiful /
hen
curtains of blood /
suspended from her throat
—comb to wingbow to shank—
The Santa Ana winds still /
for a wing beat second
this lovelessness skulks /
in our household like mice with bellies full of rice
gifts of rose water, /
sugar cane, and summer melons
It’s astonishing what sustains a person, /
what we live on, how my mother has blossomed /
with age, as she savors her secret history
luminous children in moonlight
My mother wore a bun Imelda Marcos high.
Both raven-haired /
and prone to nostalgia, we made a curious pair.
Boys who will fashion themselves into womanhood
Again I find myself in the company of women.
all poets, oatmeal-replenished
as if expelled from the kingdom of ancient trees
The moose vanished into the quivering spring thicket.
Puggle in warm pouch
Scaly males of the four- /
Pronged penis
dear /
Beautiful anomaly
custard apples or duhat plums or cotton fruits
There is no loneliness like theirs
Bearers of the burdens of legacy
Boys refuse to dance when the dancing matters
The first kiss carries history.
taffeta dresses in monstrous shades of pastel
For the duration of a subway ride you fall blindly in love. Until he exits. Or you exit, returning home to the one you truly love. To ravish him.
Her mother sits, serene as a water pitcher.
red clotted bulbs of dahlias
you witness your mother /
shrinking towards a horizon
“Dispel the Angel”
Lately his loneliness has sprouted wings
the first friction of the earth
When in love, I melt into yellow
I can be happy /
with a stranger moon
57° at a gas station and two hours before dawn, /
the blue mountains will appear to us
Into tree shadows the mockingbird /
disappears, the beauty of all /
my passing years.
For now //
in this warm bed we remain immaculate/
yet ravaged, tarnished yet holy.
"The Homosexual Book of Genesis"
"Whom You Love"
Pear eater in the orchard
Wicked at the door of happiness
an immigrant //
mother, the loneliest of beings
vigor barely contained
when I cracked /
the egg it dropped two /
yolks like marigolds
An omen of blackbirds roosting on electrical wire.
There are 30 hours in a day, minus 6, which I could totally use.
My sole brother’s birthday is May 30. I often fail him.
Adulthood prances nowhere near a New Yorker in his 30s.
If I run on a treadmill for 30 minutes, I’ll burn a cupcake.
In a clearing, a sawed-off tree. I count its rings. History.
I possessed the sentimentality of unloved children
I believed death with its bag of tricks happens to other people
Face of a fox, heart of a dog. //
Are you someone I would buy a bread box with?
Corkscrew curl of lemon rind a Möbius strip suspended in vodka
the buildings glitter like theater
But as I reach for his hand, he pulls it /
away, looks hurriedly around. Suddenly /
I stand awash in brutal history, periphery /
of sanctuary and danger. We are those /
punished for our affections. The silent /
seagulls disguised as larks. His denial /
plunges silver-finned into the river.
buried volcanically under /
a cumulus eiderdown
How we seem to be /
the same length, curved, /
fetal, scissored, spooned
yet what’s missing /
completes
as the hours /
stretch towards blue
You embrace my resilient metropolis. /
I adore your nourishing wilderness.
kisses plump as crushed tomatoes
He Anglosaxoned me, the divinity of his /
England flooded my mouth with light.
A conundrum this union /
of identical bodies, fusing in hungry, irrational /
ways, squeezing a camel through a needle’s eye: /
a defiance of nature, which is nature
We entered a threshold of revelation
I then realized I am not afraid of men, /
nor the masculine hyperbole of men who love men, /
and my father was not in that hotel room. //
I felt the archipelagic islands had gathered— /
a wholeness like Pangaea, when Earth was young, /
its landmass unimaginably one.
I am learning beauty, I’m learning to be /
feminine, and shoulder the cruelties accorded /
a boy with flair.
and my father who remains //
to be seen
shrieking like wives
maids who all looked like our aunts
those faultless, omnivorous, gluttonous ungulates
he possesses the gibbon- /
grace of Filipino coconut boys
I am stolen glances, surface /
scratcher, light’s glimmer
eggshells like shattered light
Am I no one’s Promised Land, of distant adoration?
One of Darwin’s fittest, the tortoise
In the pale universe /
of a hospital bed
But my father /
has lived his life as he knows how: /
of selfishness, of absence, of solitude.
Nearby /
the white roses begin to curl in their water.
My mother never wanted a rose garden.
High pitches & giggles & squeals
my disparaged humming body
his hips undulating /
like a sidewinder, or /
a deadlier reptile.
vinegary men drinking /
their salaries and livers /
away
“Dogs of Childhood”
She was the most beautiful /
hen
curtains of blood /
suspended from her throat
—comb to wingbow to shank—
The Santa Ana winds still /
for a wing beat second
this lovelessness skulks /
in our household like mice with bellies full of rice
gifts of rose water, /
sugar cane, and summer melons
It’s astonishing what sustains a person, /
what we live on, how my mother has blossomed /
with age, as she savors her secret history
luminous children in moonlight
My mother wore a bun Imelda Marcos high.
Both raven-haired /
and prone to nostalgia, we made a curious pair.
Boys who will fashion themselves into womanhood
Again I find myself in the company of women.
all poets, oatmeal-replenished
as if expelled from the kingdom of ancient trees
The moose vanished into the quivering spring thicket.
Puggle in warm pouch
Scaly males of the four- /
Pronged penis
dear /
Beautiful anomaly
custard apples or duhat plums or cotton fruits
There is no loneliness like theirs
Bearers of the burdens of legacy
Boys refuse to dance when the dancing matters
The first kiss carries history.
taffeta dresses in monstrous shades of pastel
For the duration of a subway ride you fall blindly in love. Until he exits. Or you exit, returning home to the one you truly love. To ravish him.
Her mother sits, serene as a water pitcher.
red clotted bulbs of dahlias
you witness your mother /
shrinking towards a horizon
“Dispel the Angel”
Lately his loneliness has sprouted wings
the first friction of the earth
When in love, I melt into yellow
I can be happy /
with a stranger moon
57° at a gas station and two hours before dawn, /
the blue mountains will appear to us
Into tree shadows the mockingbird /
disappears, the beauty of all /
my passing years.
For now //
in this warm bed we remain immaculate/
yet ravaged, tarnished yet holy.
"The Homosexual Book of Genesis"
"Whom You Love"
Pear eater in the orchard
Wicked at the door of happiness
an immigrant //
mother, the loneliest of beings
vigor barely contained
when I cracked /
the egg it dropped two /
yolks like marigolds
An omen of blackbirds roosting on electrical wire.
There are 30 hours in a day, minus 6, which I could totally use.
My sole brother’s birthday is May 30. I often fail him.
Adulthood prances nowhere near a New Yorker in his 30s.
If I run on a treadmill for 30 minutes, I’ll burn a cupcake.
In a clearing, a sawed-off tree. I count its rings. History.
I possessed the sentimentality of unloved children
I believed death with its bag of tricks happens to other people
Face of a fox, heart of a dog. //
Are you someone I would buy a bread box with?
Corkscrew curl of lemon rind a Möbius strip suspended in vodka
the buildings glitter like theater
But as I reach for his hand, he pulls it /
away, looks hurriedly around. Suddenly /
I stand awash in brutal history, periphery /
of sanctuary and danger. We are those /
punished for our affections. The silent /
seagulls disguised as larks. His denial /
plunges silver-finned into the river.
buried volcanically under /
a cumulus eiderdown
How we seem to be /
the same length, curved, /
fetal, scissored, spooned
yet what’s missing /
completes
as the hours /
stretch towards blue
You embrace my resilient metropolis. /
I adore your nourishing wilderness.
Read
May 14, 2024"The adults are strangely erotic / in their miseries. This town, / wrecked, solemn, can be named / Longing: unplucked wild berries / dripping along infinite roadsides."
November 23, 2019
Home, family, bodies, memory. These poems are clear and lyrical, leaving lasting impressions on the reader as they navigate the spaces Legaspi opens up in the lines.
December 19, 2019
Powerful, vulnerable, stunning.
If nothing else, “Vows (for a gay wedding)” is perhaps the most beautiful thing I have ever read.
If nothing else, “Vows (for a gay wedding)” is perhaps the most beautiful thing I have ever read.
September 24, 2020
Voluptuous was used to describe these and that feels right, sensuous, but also with threats of danger: I hold my breath to see what will come next, if the moment will survive.
September 7, 2023
A collection of poems about home, family, identity, the body, queerness, and fitting in (or not).
from The Homosexual Book of Genesis: "On the sixth day // God, in His image, creates Adam / and Adam, sons of His patriarchal regime. // Then God rests. Then no begetting. / No litanies of descendants."
from They Say: "You'll marry your mother. / But I, rather, my father. // Their prediction confirms nothing / short of presumption."
from Triumvirate: "We are made of everything and / nothing, of dark matter absorbing slivers of light. / We hum in masculine embrace."
from The Homosexual Book of Genesis: "On the sixth day // God, in His image, creates Adam / and Adam, sons of His patriarchal regime. // Then God rests. Then no begetting. / No litanies of descendants."
from They Say: "You'll marry your mother. / But I, rather, my father. // Their prediction confirms nothing / short of presumption."
from Triumvirate: "We are made of everything and / nothing, of dark matter absorbing slivers of light. / We hum in masculine embrace."
Displaying 1 - 9 of 9 reviews