(Photo from gradinadevis.ro)
Iris. My Name is Iris
My right hand was already on the next branch when she called my name,
it was terribly scary the way she was catching me in the act,
and the setting … the setting was busy imagining our story.
She startled me and one of my knees jerked against the reluctance of the tree,
a drop of blood lingered on her palm;
before I let myself down, she was already screaming my name.
She wiped my face and used a satin bandana to mask the guilt on my leg.
“You are a flower girl”, she told me
and I said no. I didn’t want to carry that funny-looking basket
and make all the old women cry,
I didn’t want to trip over the bride’s unreasonably long dress,
when little Charlie was already playing “what’s your name?” with his laces,
and I never wanted to be a hyacinth girl. Never.
What about freesia?
After I rolled my eyes and made the men laugh,
I slipped under two layers of gossiping dresses,
and found my way back to the garden.
The only place that would have me was a gladiola,
minimalist furnished shared accommodation.
I didn’t mind until they told me I must go to school.
The gladiola mothers. What would you study in the decorative
and otherwise superfluous country of the gladiola?
Sciences: chemistry, physics, biology,
the language of the flowers, maths for the pollen, philosophy for the stem.
One day, they told me I should go travelling.
Where? Back home? No, thank you.
The Gladioli citizenship is seasonal,
in case of rebellion, I should be deported to the first available greenhouse,
among cucumbers and tomatoes.
Any other choice? A rhododendron.
I didn’t choose the poppies because once upon a time
I saw all those little grey seeds blooming on people’s skin.
Those are tattoos, a cat told me,
and I didn’t believe her because the mice wouldn’t believe her either.
Where would I be if … O, look at this! A bell!
I am going to ring the bell and if anybody asks me
what I would like for supper, I’ll say a secret but no lullaby.
Lumină de ținut minte 