Tuesday, September 19, 2017

Iris Poem



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.


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