Iris Biggs

Laine never understood why
She didn’t dream of
Her grandmother any more.

It had nearly been a decade,
Since Iris passed
Through her subconscious
On the way to the afterlife.

It wasn’t cotton season.

The bare fields still held
White remnants of the year’s crop.
It reminded me of a light
Dusting in late November.

We parked on the bend
Of Backwoods Road.
Tears still sat in her eyes,
The knowing result of
Speaking with the dead.

I held her despite my fear
Of anyone seeing. Creswell, NC
Wasn’t as forgiving as it is
Beautiful.

I became the reason
She couldn’t go home anymore.

Miss Vicky loves me
Her father tolerates me. I know
I wasn’t the first choice
For his daughter. I’m just glad
Not to be the last.

She tells me Iris would understand,
I ask if the grave told her this.

Silence is a strange thing.
It likes to builds walls
Between people,
Leaving uncomfortable
Questions unanswered.

Reviews

[holly]

Really good! This poem tells the story and maintains the rhythym of poetry well. Thanks for posting it.