Vivian St. John (1981-1974) <br /> <br />There is a train inside this iris: <br /> <br />You think I'm crazy, & like to say boyish <br />& outrageous things. No, there is <br /> <br />A train inside this iris. <br /> <br />It's a child's finger bearded in black banners. <br />A single window like a child's nail, <br /> <br />A darkened porthole lit by the white, angular face <br /> <br />Of an old woman, or perhaps the boy beside her in the stuffy, <br />Hot compartment. Her hair is silver, & sweeps <br /> <br />Back off her forehead, onto her cold and bruised shoulders. <br /> <br />The prairies fail along Chicago. Past the five <br />Lakes. Into the black woods of her New York; & as I bend <br /> <br />Close above the iris, I see the train <br /> <br />Drive deep into the damp heart of its stem, & the gravel <br />Of the garden path <br /> <br />Cracks under my feet as I walk this long corridor <br /> <br />Of elms, arched <br />Like the ceiling of a French railway pier where a boy <br /> <br />With pale curls holding <br /> <br />A fresh iris is waving goodbye to a grandmother, gazing <br />A long time <br /> <br />Into the flower, as if he were looking some great <br /> <br />Distance, or down an empty garden path & he believes a man <br />Is walking toward him, working <br /> <br />Dull shears in one hand; & now believe me: The train <br /> <br />Is gone. The old woman is dead, & the boy. The iris curls, <br />On its stalk, in the shade <br /> <br />Of those elms: Where something like the icy & bitter fragrance <br /> <br />In the wake of a woman who's just swept past you on her way <br />Home <br /> <br />& you remain.<br /><br />David St. John<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/iris/
