Iris

by Jane McKie

When I get to the hot country I fling my sunhat down,
letting my forehead bake to the gold of gooseberry piecrust.
My arms will soon burn, soaking up the pain of stoves,
because heat, here, is a bubbling, easeful substance.
I won’t have children. I’ll tell my husband to call me
by a new name. We’ll build on lava plains, eating creatures
that scurry past our front door. Relatives back home
will know the most minimal of postcardmusings,
less legible each year, or even better just that name,
which is, sentimentally, the name of a flower I can never grow.