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Mo Gallaccio

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The power of purple

for Mark and in memory of Shun-Wah Chan

Mo Gallaccio reading The power of purple 4252.4 KB
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Morning
       the purple iris knocks me for six again;
such colour – not washed out lilac, not
in-your-face indigo, just absolute, imperial rex
perfect purple.
Yellow runway for the bees,
corduroy ribbed – to rob them of their pollen
but just in case, beckoning moth markings
faint fawn of thrush feathers, pointing
nudging the way to the dark sweet centre.

Noon
          my downstairs neighbours
are back from the hospital: in shock.
A rare tumour is growing behind her face.
She looks the same – she looks like yesterday.
I picture mauve plums ripening
in the soft spaces of her skull.
He details possibilities, surgical procedures.
My mouth dries up with clichés.

Night
          but no sleep – the impervious moon
still rises, one fat moth, batters and batters
against cold glass; old scars I hoped had healed
tear open.
                  If only

if only we could get back
back to the moment, to that very last
moment, which was the moment before
the knowledge that fractures the whole of one’s life.
I want to dive into the iris
lose myself in pure colour
let the purple bear me up…

           My young friend fought for two hard years.
She lost. No miracle occurred.
My son stays dead.
Calendula heals – and lavender, purple sage
and the modest creeping viola, heartsease:
life-bruises fade – but never disappear.

Each year I seek the purple iris out:
It never fails – it has the power
to take my breath away.

 

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