In the Siberian Irises by Patricia Brody





           Today at their peak of violet youth,
   Their moist plum-blooms hang open,
           Their purple wattles droop,
  Their pouty lips invite...who may come.

       Before climbing to the x-ray table,
        I read:  Bones At Peak Density                              

                     from 25-35,

    And after that we lose, lose, lose until...
             Bones so thin, we snap

        Even with no apparent injury.

       Two pale dancers
mariposas
  Rise like veils above the fluttering purple,
           Leaf-girls soar up to the sun.

         Bz-z-z-z!   The x-ray's cranky groan
             Nicks my hip, wrist, spine,
            My legs part as she tells me:
                  Use the metal V

           How insistently she avoids my eyes!
              Click-click-click her fingers tap;
          She has kept me waiting unduly long
               
they are backed-up here
  And clearly she is tired, tired, tired of her duties,
       Measuring the bird-bones of ladies.
           (Austere in her adherence to one vocal tone;
                The report will be sent to your doctor.
      Does she think she's so far behind me?)
          Outside this door, stacked in sample-packs:
               Every pill known to woman.  A fix
            For every orifice and organ,
           Nose and Mouth
UnderBehindMind.

        You could cup your hand under the tallest blossom,
                Peer down the dark-veined flower-throat;
            Turn up the corners of your own flesh-mouth,

              As if trying to match markings with their
                Yellow-wisped, plum-striped wings;
    Deep in the iris-cup you could probe, each center petal-tip
                       Poised
gazing out from in
                Like the painted geisha-eye on a butterfly.

 

 


PATRICIA BRODY has been writing for most of her adult life.  She will soon be editing Promethean, a NewYork City College journal of poetry.

 

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