It falls down as nectar
making the ground wet with salvation,
I am parched
although it rests on the edge of my lips, beckoning
my vision melting and morphing into all that could be—
the laughter of the sky fills the night,
as nymphs tread a lovely dance among immortals,
I gaze down and watch
as my body flutters and chases them around ash trees.
Savor the taste of bitter truth,
two pieces of the root of the sweet iris
one litter of grappa and brown sugar.
Observe as the sun kisses the pieces dry,
pouring ever so slowly like liquid gold
as heaviness of the day is lifted.
For ninety days be placed in a litter of grappa
as time stings and sits on the cuts
and lastly drink, all the lone while, breaking
a little more–
Love notes for irises blooming beneath
your bedroom window,
no longer grey and cheeks flushed
with the knowledge of arriving decades.
Aphrodite, born from white foam produced
by severed genitals of Uranus,
as the moons of youth spilled once more
and we felt ourselves interminable again.
Tell me, why does love sting for those who choose it?
In a heartbeat, she laughed and in a moment I knew.
Lay me down
in all my vulnerability, and place an iris
between my hips,
we have tasted eros everything else fails—
pale in comparison to the fire in your eyes
as they trace my skin,
forbidden songs jagging placid landscapes;
and now, I cannot tear my gaze away.
Photo credits: The Black Iris by Georgia O’Keeffe, Pinterest
Posted for Weekly Scribblings @ Poets and Storytellers United