Death on a Sidewalk I took a turn under a luncheon sun for the unfurling of bearded iris flags, billows unwound from pencil-thin buds-- purple, violet, blue, and cream petal-splashes that I floated and puddled on a thin archival page in a class of middling women lost in the loose paint-night spills of dry rosé and gossip, rendering watery Cotswold gardens, masterworks to lavish on mudroom walls. Yesterday a bed-edge iris took an early fall, death by a rude shoe or tossed ball; I stood over this rainbow rider, now dirt-bound and brick-baked, its royal frills shriveling into common bruises and yellowing, like the nicotine fingers of my painting teacher tapping, always tapping, a Marlboro pack. The iris cast a hard-headed silhouette on the sidewalk—a gaping ruffle, jaw-jutted open, in the moment of no air. Catherine Hamrick Catherine Hamrick is the copywriter for Berry College in Rome, Georgia, and previously held editorial positions at Cooking Light, Southern Accents, Better Homes and Gardens, and Meredith Books. Her poems have appeared in The Blue Mountain Review and storySouth. She posts reflections and creative writing on the blog Random Storyteller: https://randomstoryteller.com/.
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September 2024
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