I take a red scarf from its hook hurriedly,
don’t tie my boots. Close the door
without thinking miracle. Walk
faster in the street than I want to.
Allow my phone to be important, the birdsong, secondary.
The touch of day – though silk & petaled – an afterthought.
Type & scroll into a tiny square of space
& let it seem expansive. Hunch shallowly forward. Arrive
& stand at the shore, half-ignoring the mystic flicker
of the first daylight
my mind on plans, not on the river
I hardly hear the gentle clink of the boat moorings
the lapping wet edge, the glittering.
These are my admittances, today
a word which means, permission to enter
& by which I mean, confess. I am
too tired to feel badly, but I will tell the truth —
when we only have somewhere between 1 hour & 50 years left
in the archipelago of moments that make up a life,
it is so sad
to miss the cream, dispersing in dark coffee;
its quiet motion of disaster, chaos, comfort, gift.
Arranging its swirls, a momentary
beautiful, small promise.
But the Iris —
I stop for the Iris.
Overgrown lot, someone’s hands, endeavored bulbs which waited through winter.
I cannot walk past this effort. My sadness, slowed, unlabored, April. The unfurling,
the golden & black, the stamen & bloom at eye level. Invites, suggests, it sends my breath
back into my only body.
Aiyana Masla is author of Stone Fruit (Bottlecap Press, 2020) and the Underdream (forthcoming with Cornerstone Press). Her poems and art have been featured in the West Trestle Review, Thimble Literary Magazine, Vagabond City Poetry, Rogue Agent Journal, Cordella Magazine, and other collections or anthologies both in print and online. Aiyana is a queer, interdisciplinary artist and educator who loves to sing and dance.
