Transplanting Irises

For inflorescence, I divide
the roots of irises— tall,

bearded, stippled, promising
deep blue or amethyst and white—

Transplanting them, I kneel
in the grass while cicadas

make their thick cloud-hum
among the trees. An itch

on my ankle and nape mean
my blood has been a target,

but I don’t mind. The taste
of salt and sweat films my face

as I thin matted clumps of soil
caught in hair-like issue. I like

the way the heat, these small,
purposeful rhythms flick away

the sad gray tatters hanging
in my brain. I like the seal

my fingers make to press the ginger-
colored rhizomes back into the earth.

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