| 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—Under—Behind—Mind. 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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