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The Wild Iris

“‏ما كان مقدرا لك سيأتيك ولو كان بين جبلين

We are still wearing our forest colors, a grove of light playing off shadow printed on this tree shirt. We ask, if politely, whether we care enough to withstand it, whether we are still welcome: tiny saplings, fresh to this glade and these pollen bearers. We buzzing because we arrived here having already taken root; our futuristic hum the same insect shuffle and tangled antennae. See, this one carries a leaf to the hive. This one has wings folded, stripes. This one, of all of us, to fly.

AFTER PARADISE . Don’t run any more. Quiet. How softly it rains On the roofs of the city. How perfect All things are. Now, for the two of you Waking up in a royal bed by a garret window. For a man and a woman. For one plant divided Into masculine and feminine which longed for each other. Yes, this is my gift to you. Above ashes On a bitter, bitter earth. Above the subterranean Echo of clamorings and vows. So that now at dawn You must be attentive: the tilt of a head, A hand with a comb, two faces in a mirror Are only forever once, even if unremembered, So that you watch what it is, though it fades away, And are grateful every moment for your being. Let that little park with greenish marble busts In the pearl-gray light, under a summer drizzle, Remain as it was when you opened the gate. And the street of tall peeling porticos Which this love of yours suddenly transformed.