Black Iris III, Georgia O'Keefe

for Amy

Petals open dark and purple as curtains
that curve outward to light,
each bloom gently bruised
by a calloused finger
they rise from the vase
as a window washer's
balance on a sill; steam
dark from her pail curls
through air crisp with fog;
her hands plunge into suds
like a tongue, come away dripping.

She caresses the glass,
slides her sponge over the pane
and dreams of the woman
who lives inside, who exited
the room this morning
leaving behind only
an old nightshirt draped
over the back of a chair;
in its folds and dark places
the warm odor of her breath
still blossoms.

ãElizabeth Terry
1989