Iris

For the ancients, the rainbow goddess served,

likewise, as divine messenger, spawned

from the froth and embers of the sea,

married to the wind, and bearing forth

the winged herald of love

to the world.

From the rain beyond the window

of the café—the light bleared in

the murky gray of an overcast

afternoon—you bowed in from

the rain, your hoodie pulled

taut over your head (you forgot

your umbrella)

Inside, though, safe from the cold,

the scent of soggy damp, wayward

wind blown through dew in marshlands,

roasted coffee and milky foam

billowing in a memory

of the sea,

you approached the counter where

I stood, dry, but desolate

all the same.

And here, you order

a latte, while I await mine.

They arrive together, at the counter

joined as twins, one whose milk was etched

as a fallen leaf, the other

a heart. We reach at the same time, and

our hands, though inches apart,

do not touch. I apologize and you giggle and

you take yours first.

As the rainbow you had forged

your colors, separated them,

in their respective places.

Streaks of purple in your hair, red

cushioned on your lips, green and

autumn floral patterns on

your pants and golden banners threaded

on your shirt.

But through the rain these colors

smeared, and there, inside

the wooden warmth

of the café—the scent

of coffee

and dust, your colors run,

cold, but living, flowing as rivers,

pregnant, embryotic, waiting for

Olympian hands to smooth

and forge them

as rainbows

once more.

Then, you smile at me, and say

you like my tattoos. I see yours but

can’t think to comment, so I

merely reply: “thanks.” And you retreat

to your corner table, while I stand

alone, by the bathrooms,

coffee in hand, a mere

obstacle, at last.

By the shores of the Aegean, the ancients knew

how the rainbow was messenger as well—

How it spoke from the sun and sea,

bore the colors to the sky. How, to speak, it

needs must be ephemeral, unraveled by

softest cloud, stormy sea, the slightest shift

of the angle of the sun.

How it sang that

the colors do not seek to lie so still

in neat rows, discrete and pure, but rather

seek to bleed and blend, merge themselves

in wind and river and upon

the rain-washed caverns

of living bodies.

How the Iris bleeds

to bring her children—

held on golden wings—through the gray world

to the warmth of little places,

like the soft,

vibrant air

of the café.

And I, only gray, am thus carried

to your table, and here

you look up

and smile,

and your colors ascend

through the clouds

like the rainbow,

emblazoning

the bluest skies

breaking through the storm clouds

still lingering

above the sea.