The Irises

Behind the boy's house is a graveyard
where he hacks down saplings,
throws rocks at bottles,
torches boxes with kerosene.
Birds perch in trees
like cutout targets
for his slinghot.

Slashing through the brush,
he comes upon flowers
swaying tall between his knees.

Lavender velvet, and within, purple,
rich as grape juice,
with yellow tongues of texture
trailing deeper,
toward thick green stems.
He reaches down to pick one,
hesitates,
moves on.

Scott Speck
07/17/99