Iris

after Deleuze and Guattari's A Thousand Plateaus

You are a rhizome (and perhaps,When I reflect, you always were?)That pushes up through the soilOn the stretched map before me—

You are between me and that wall,That line of hills, that conversation—Intermezzo. There is not one singleWay to find you so I won't think

Of our history as a narrative thatBegan with Grimm and magpies andHot sweet tea. Instead, wait until sadSurfaces open, fissures fill—for a

Transparent sheet that spreads,Sinks, leaves no immediate trace,The deep color growing beneathAnd sprouting in its planar way. I

Have learned to like the elementOf surprise: the shimmer of theCeaseless white caps that roll andHide, the blue of fields that are at

First glance green, the familiar curlOf lashes sweeping my child's eyeWith its own ocean of purple. IrisesDon't have edges or endings.