Iris and the sun

Iris thought of the sun as a stain
on the sky; it spread so keenly
when it set, perhaps the lake
was blotting paper.

Why she paid to sit in a boat,
no one knows. The oars scratched
at the surface — relentless nibs –,
disturbed the hulking dusk-yellow

ever so minutely, and nothing
was written that night.

*

Ragini to ex-lover

I am now underground.
Earthworms and roots fuss
about me. But I’m not dead
yet.

To get by I watch the moss;
I think of your green dress
and the rain
and how it conjured a Venice
on your body; the runnels — canals;
my fingers — gondola people
smoothing the ripples.

You must visit now you
know where I am.
I’ll bring the chrysanthemums.

***