Diane Sahms

Iris’s mind eclipsed

by Diane Sahms

If a (wo)man fears death, (s)he shall be saved

by (her)his poems.

—Mark Stand (1935–2014, Poet)

Ghostly chimes of time’s disremembered—

awaken, roam, haunt Iris’s mind:

sounds resurface, motion of madness.

A tumultuous pulse beats wings

against elapsed thoughts like a sparrow

trapped between panes of glass.

Depressed relics locked away in a dead

heavy trunk that had peacefully slept

for a spacewalk moment—

earth wedged between sun and moon

eclipsed lunatic ways, almost

ending all roots of misery, until

the hinged trunk door opens

and finds forgotten— a time

and place where Iris no longer exists

the way that she once did—

things dredged up, frightful

and half-dead

a still-beating heart and pulse—

limp as a mouse in the jaws of a cat.

Hidden past now infused

into the present

climbs the attic ladder,

rummages through relics,

black and white photographs,

trinkets as old as Disco.

Mind’s swinging

full moon pendulum

eclipses solar light,

until all is black

until madness swings forefront

stands on the edge of existence

Iris’s musings as a single mother

by Diane Sahms

If a (wo)man fears death, (s)he shall be saved

by (her)his poems.

—Mark Stand (1935–2014, Poet)

Alarm clock’s silent, glaring red digits

matchsticks in a burning row and Iris—

repeatedly, involuntarily—

waking up to striking ones / 1s as if

Numerology’s 11:11

meant either an auspicious sign or spirit’s

presence or even a spiritual awakening,

then 1:11. Is the universe

trying to get Iris’s attention?

Rock pile pillow. Tossing and turnings

between waves of white cap sheets. It was as

though the rocking chair she nursed each baby in

was magically moved to the head of the table.

Iris was it: Single mother with kids.

Clichés: bread winner; one who brings home the bacon.

Her flashing mother entering in nightmare,

lightning panic, screaming: Trump will be taking

away our houses, health care, jobs, social

security. Iris flies above morning thoughts,

otherworldly. Leaving for work on car’s

windshield, three fallen unhatched crows—

embryos, undeveloped skeletons, wingless—

omen? Iris shattering, broken egg pieces,

her meditating mind unloosening

fringe, aimlessly blowing in June’s wind.

Iris’s freedom of self through unlocked words

by Diane Sahms

If a (wo)man fears death, (s)he shall be saved

by (her)his poems.

—Mark Stand (1935–2014, Poet)

It started in Iris’s little toe—

crossing step stones of all the bones

that make up a foot—

burrowed up through leg’s marrow

all the way through intestines,

four heart chambers, esophagus and

pure as a crystallized spring

gushing forth through lips,

water-fountain-blossoming words.

Words that walked with her.

Entire body shaking

emptying out everything

penned up inside of her—

zoo-caged animal, freed.

Iris felt clean as a shaved body

before surgery—white cotton sheets

sparkling back at moon

so brightly, thousands of stars

entered through every window

sweating bright as stage lights. Now

with freedom of a runaway train

soaring high speeds around “crazy,”

blades of her lips clashing

so powerfully atomic—

a mushroom cloud filled

the entire bedroom. Reborn.

Exhalation with exhaustion

of a car’s rattling muffler

finally silenced

by turning off her motor. Waited.

Cautiously asked, as if a child

coming out from hiding:

Hon, what do think? Hon . . . Hon . . .

Baton of Iris’s pointer finger poking.

Startled awake mountain quaking

polar bear out of hibernation.

Not having witnessed

her inner journey

not having seen the signs, and

most importantly

not having listened to Iris, ever

not having heard

a 100-mile freedom march—

revolutionary words: liberation.

Your voice put me to sleep.

She drowns for now

in red sleep, orbits

Venus in fiery dream.

Tail of comet—blazing

coma—facing,

always facing toward sun.

Diane Sahms is a Philadelphia Poet and four collections of her poetry have been published, most recently, The Handheld Mirror of the Mind, released by Kelsay Books in 2018. Diane’s poems have been widely published in the small and electronic press. She is the poetry editor of North of Oxford. Her website is: http://www.dianesahms-guarnieri.com/

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