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.