Black Iris

Dear guitar, my Cyclops, my raft,
my drunken casket, my doll
without arms, my willow, my ink,

what is it that dies in the grain of you,
my hollow stare at the wall of stars,
my corner, my carrel, my final word,

what nights do you consume and why,
you with your permanent o of surprise,
why cricket, why thrush, why beg

with this bowl of tainted shadow,
this cold black moon burning in its box,
why now in my mother's illness

do I think of you as a gift
floating back from the end of things,
my insensible earth, my great felled spruce,

my anxious boy looking away,
why is she everywhere you are not,
why then are you her only name.

Copyright © 2006 Bruce Bond All rights reserved
from Columbia Poetry Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission