Mario Petrucci
Iris
Under the big window
they swayed - fat bruised buds
pumped almost black with blue.
Open, their complex vulvas
had bees bumbling at their lips,
greasing themselves with pollen.
You picked them.
Bunched them into a vase
in the window’s good light.
Now I fold brittle stems
into the bin, their pale inks
parched. Each head
is something pulled from the deep
that died in the sun.
And I stand
by the big window, look
at hands that held you, at veins
proud with blue.
Page(s) 42
magazine list
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- 10th Muse
- 14
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- Agenda
- Ambit
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- ARTEMISpoetry
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- Cannon's Mouth, The
- Chroma
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- Dream Catcher
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- Fabric
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- Floating Bear, The
- French Literary Review, The
- Frogmore Papers, The
- Global Tapestry
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- Interpreter's House, The
- Iota
- Journal, The
- Lamport Court
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- Magma
- Matchbox
- Matter
- Modern Poetry in Translation
- Monkey Kettle
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- Neon Highway
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- North, The
- Oasis
- Obsessed with pipework
- Orbis
- Oxford Poetry
- Painted, spoken
- Paper, The
- Pen Pusher Magazine
- Poetry Cornwall
- Poetry London
- Poetry London (1951)
- Poetry Nation
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- Poetry Salzburg Review
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- Private Tutor
- Purple Patch
- Quarto
- Rain Dog
- Reach Poetry
- Review, The
- Rialto, The
- Second Aeon
- Seventh Quarry, The
- Shearsman
- Smiths Knoll
- Smoke
- South
- Staple
- Strange Faeces
- Tabla Book of New Verse, The
- Thumbscrew
- Tolling Elves
- Ugly Tree, The
- Weyfarers
- Wolf, The
- Yellow Crane, The