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.
***
