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 blue to tan
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.
