K in P (plus one) | Kimberly Lyons

Irises Probably

Gleaming dirndl of meat

among the familiar map of strange islands:

Serifos, and Thira and Paros.

Their dusty horizons

cloaked with weeds and trash

white pumice and goats.

I calculate how

long may I trudge up the path

to her throne,

The world's most perfect food:

the Greek Salad is an offering.

Salty, bitter, dry and moist

with a spit of fish curled

like a secret message

from the oracle.

For one moment, this Thursday May night

slows its cycle

to a limpid dream. Spring flowers flutter past.

Irises, probably. Bicycles at night

in the West Village appear

devoid of rider, wheels flicker.

A man is angrily tearing at his meat:

yells about a dog and the Mafia. Then,

improbably, calls himself young and stupid.

God, I'm glad the rain stopped, finally.

A violet climacteric builds

up the sky and from the harbor

ships are loaded.

It is the local, the street, the new sandals

that tonight, I eye.