The first time

I fell in love I was young and naïve.

The second time I fell in love I

was praying in the sanctuary

when I felt a breeze

touch its feathered

hand on my eyelids.

Of course I wasn’t really praying.

I don’t know how to pray.

I think my words get

confused. I fold them up in wet yellow

tissue paper and expect to

see the ink. My unholy thoughts

blow like dust in the wind.

I wish I

was young and naïve again.

Because that first time,

when that boy broke my heart

I could cry and pray and ask for

forgiveness and understanding.

I asked never to fall in love

again

but I fell in love with my

irises.

Yes, irises.

My love is not a

boy who smells

of sweat and stupidity.

He doesn’t have acne

spots or grease

stains on his Ralph Lauren

polo’s. My love is not

even male. My love is

a woman steeped to

the neck in clouds.

For my soul

is a woman. Sometimes.

Sometimes it is a girl.

Sometimes it is

airy and floats

like wind above

everybody’s heads.

They can’t see it

but I know it’s there.

A little black girl’s soul.

Irises can’t leave you

beside your locker

with tears in your pockets

where his heart used to be.

But irises can leave you

lonely and confused

when the person you see in

the mirror ceases to be you.

That’s why I can’t pray.

I like to pray with

my eyes open so I can see

the brown-black irises

drift and sink in a

dirty reflection. But then

those irises taint my words

and they don’t reach heaven.

I want to rip out those irises

but it cries when I make

threats like that. My irises are so

beautiful that my words

can only be threats.

Only threats.

Shh, irises.

I still love you.