Myth of Iris: Origin of the Opal

It’s true I am capable of violence—all light burns

and I am every color (1). I cannot land softly—each time,

I watch ruptures fill with lava as earth cauterizes herself.

Once, I crashed into a basalt plain. Beneath my feet, the ground

shattered and each prayer I carried (2) slipped like sand

through my fingers. Imagine a star brought to earth—

the burning. Imagine the whole sky. I gathered

the black shards and poured abundantly from my jar

of nectar—this is sin I could end up like Arke (3) wingless

thrown to hell—the iridescent liquid a balm for each wounded

angle of earth. Scarred soil made sacred, made shimmer—

into each stone, I breathed its own jeweled heart.

With your ear to the ground, you can hear their humming.

You can feel their radiant heat against your palms. I pray they rest

forever in their soft darkness. I pray you never find them.

1. Iris rainbow. Iris flower. Iris prism. Iris fire.

2. Messenger goddess, hear our prayer.

3. Dear sister—is it an evil thing to be banished

by those who would silence your story?

Maria Provenzano (she/her) is a poet based in southern New Jersey. She writes about nature and identity and her work can be found or is forthcoming in Wild Roof Journal, The Closed Eye Open, and First Wave: A Beach Bards Anthology. She lives by the ocean with her best friend (a phenomenal writer, professor, and human) and their three small and furry children: Sweet Potato Pancake (rabbit), Peregrin Took, and Midnight (guinea pigs).