Bearded Iris

1

A sort of synesthetic pun: the purples       smell like grapes when grapes

still had a smell, and remnants       of fertility, which we

in an excess of ever-more-ease       have banished from our tables.

A throwback then, like Concords on the trellis       below the swing. The sibling

blossoms — firstborn, second,       opening in succession — ought

to be a sign of comfort-in-community but       look how the youngest

carry the browning corpses on their shoulders. As       so often is the case with us.

I used to think Siberians played the better part      all round: the solitary

flourish then the choir of stately verticals       till fall. What was it

I thought the world could provide?       Mortality without the mess?

2

My father was the oldest and therefore       expected to have

a leather heart. They were farmers       animals died.

But when Eddie’s favorite dog got old it was       Olaf’s job

to go into the woods with a gun.       So neither late

nor early are we spared. Good dog,       it followed where it was led.

3

Ruffled falls and ruffled shoulders —       a garden

of children in pinafores. Nor nocent yet,       John Milton wrote,

the better to remind us we can imagine      no such thing.

He couldn’t have been much more than one,       my father, in the photograph,

not speaking yet, first haircut still       some months away. How

in the world did she manage?       White bloomers, white smock,

they would have been washed when the chores      were done, the iron —

I’ve held it — heated on the cookstove.       Photographer once

a year. The sheer hard work       to posit a state of cleanliness.

4

Stigma, stamen, ovary, beard: flaunted       devotion to making-

more-of-the-same. If the dog does not       whimper

but lies down and covers its head       with its paws

and the man with the gun isn’t much for       words, where

do you go for plotline? If       the man

who built the trellis and the swing set too       and taught a child to count

while he pushed wasn’t frightened       of death for his own sake but

would say we had it coming, all of us,       better a bit

too soon than all this sordid hanging on,       will the child

be better equipped for — what-do-we-call-them? —       years-to-come?

First adding, then subtraction, then before       you know it,

remainders. The parts that can’t be made to fit.