Iris Poem

Irises

My mother grew a circle of irises

dividing a koi pond from the rose garden,

bearded blond heads bobbing like fish hooks,

their reflections prismed into Greek goddess robes,

(messengers, I know, using flowing rainbows

as bridges between earth and the heavens,

I thought they’d turn to gold by seven,

melanin changing one iris from tan to blue

Dina’s heterochromia iridium charming bartenders, disc jockeys

and the entire Columbus Clipper baseball team

her bi-colored eyes blending way too smoothly

into exotic berry wine coolers in the

back of a maroon escort, looking rosy

from the rear-view mirror before a smell

like Jim’s skunked Australian shepherd washed in

tomato juice, baking soda, and hydrogen peroxide

opened my doors)—the bronzed lower petals

grow fuzzy from rhizomes, purging the liver;

behind the cornea their tinted apertures open

like symbols of passion planted on graves.