Glass Poetry Press

Volume Four Issue One

Laura Merzig Fabrycky


Snaking through villages in the north at springtime, we are hunting the black iris: Iris petrana. I will gather these rare velvet spectacles of mourning and royalty in my shallow basket and then scatter their beardless petals in the streets of Ajloun, among the fallen pine needles of Dibeen. I shed my tears outside Palestine, oh, precious Palestine — died. We ring you with black iris petals, for it is finished, and we hear in the grey olive leaves, a final, divine exhale.