open
shining
like the sun
in our vase on
coffee table giving
themselves to our hungry
gaze fully completely holding
nothing back not like the guarded
tulip or the many petalled rose and we
can open too and play our Debussyesque
preludes of dark and light of scars and broken
bones of empty arms and the brush of fingers on
skin of a toddler’s toothy un-self-conscious smile of
truths and lies and the battleground of love and hate in-
between to the world knowing the irises will listen yet when
I look now I see one of them has a broken stem
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