To the Iris
Kerry Trautman

To the Iris

I had not anticipated how
you would dissolve yourselves—
your upward standard petals
collapsing and congealing,
dripping violet ooze onto the bureau top.
Such dramatic gore,
unlike other flowers’ demure
beige wilting—
their slow fade until one day
I realize what I have displayed
in a tall glass vase now
is death, is yesterday, is
atop woody spindle stems.
But not you,
liquifying yourselves
to a resentful purple glop,
perhaps seeking my apologies for
clipping your succulent high stems
when your falls were at their zenith,
were spread to spring’s spare sun,
beckoning bees to
your bearded, veined convolutions.
You will not go gently.

Kerry Trautman

writes at dawn in small-town Ohio. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in various print and online journals, including Toledo Review, Alimentum, Coe Review, Third Wednesday, and Think Journal; as well as in anthologies, including Tuesday Night at Sam and Andy’s Uptown Café (Westron Press, 2001), Mourning Sickness (Omniarts, 2008), and Roll (Telling Our Stories Press, 2012).