Iris Blossoms

They razed a Project

in our neighbor-

hood, and the ghosts

awakened, moaning and crying,

dark circles under their eyes, tattered

clothes, the same ones they had worn

before. In life they had done nothing

wrong, but they had done nothing

right. Seeds were never

sown. Purple iris bulbs blossomed

every Spring in the back-

yard where we played, where the cinder

blocks and metal grate served

as a barbecue grill, and the hedges

mimicked a maze that no one

could navigate. There was the ghost

of a car on its side at the base

of a bridge, and another—smoke-filled—

windows shut tight, the graveyard

where your broken eyes

wept, and the tears flowed into a wide

river. I’ve lived a ghost-

filled life, strewn with iris

petals, but after a while

the irises refused

to blossom.