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Irises
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.
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