by Lisa Rhoades
The cathedrals of the iris don’t last–
in this they are like us, thin-skinned and tender.
Like us, thin-skinned and tender, they are
quick to bruise, quick to droop and fail. My dad,
my dad is failing quickly, drooping, bruised.
He hurts. We say we love each other. We try.
We try, and each says I love you. It hurts
as the words between us expand and contract.
The space between us expands and contracts.
Can this untended field between us flower?
Even if the untended field between us flowers
with crowds of yellows–cornsilk, butter, and gold,
crowds of silken yellows, buttery and gold
wild cathedrals of iris, it won’t last.
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BIO
Image: Kristīne Zāle
ID: purple-blue irises.
Psaltery & Lyre 