Iris Lennox

  • Question in the Sand

    This version of “Question in the Sand” appears in my collection, The Giving of Weight.

    A man kneels at the edge of the tide

    and writes

    WHY

    with one finger.

    The letters are large enough
    to be read from a distance,
    which seems ambitious.

    A message for pirates?
    For God?

    The sea,
    having answered
    several million questions already,

    continues
    with its own business.

    A wave approaches.

    Changes its mind.

    Returns to conference
    with the horizon.

    The man stands.

    His knees complain
    and then recover.

    He studies the word.

    The word studies him.

    Neither appears satisfied.

    Years have altered him
    in practical ways.

    His hair,
    for example,

    once committed fully
    to black.

    Now it negotiates.

    The wind participates.

    A gull lands nearby.

    It contributes nothing.
    Maybe because it can’t read.

    Another wave enters the discussion.

    The W loses a corner.

    The H remains confident.

    The Y,
    for reasons unknown,
    looks wounded.

    A woman appears.

    She carries her shoes
    with one hand.

    The other swings
    at her side.

    “How did you find me?”
    he asks.

    The question seems misplaced.

    She looks at the sand.

    At the sea.

    At the gull.

    At the word.

    “I wasn’t looking.”

    This answer lasts
    slightly longer
    than the W.

    The tide advances.

    The gull departs.

    The horizon keeps
    its own counsel.

    Together they walk north
    while the sea
    works patiently
    through the alphabet.

    —Iris Lennox

  • Route 66

    A bench possesses very few options.

    It cannot follow the river
    when the Meramec rises beyond its banks.

    It cannot seek shade in July
    or shelter in January.

    It cannot complain about mosquitoes,
    cottonwood fluff,
    fallen branches,
    or the weight of snow.

    Someone chose its view:
    One sliver of sky.
    The trees.
    A long curve of water
    moving northeast toward someplace else.

    When I first photograph it
    in Route 66 State Park,
    I do not yet know we will spend
    a year together.

    I am only walking a trail.

    The bench is only a bench.

    The river is moving quickly that day,
    green with spring runoff.

    Leaves unfold overhead.

    Somewhere beyond the trees,
    a train sounds its horn.

    I take a photograph and continue on.

    Then I return.

    A few days later.
    A few weeks later.

    Again.

    Again.

    The river lowers.
    The air grows thick enough to wear.
    Vines climb fallen tree trunks.
    Grass thickens.

    The air hums with insects
    so determined in their purpose
    they seem incapable of doubt.

    Autumn arrives carrying its familiar tools.

    Gold.
    Copper.
    Rust.

    Leaves gather around the legs
    and drift across the seat.
    The birds change shifts in the air
    and the shadows lengthen below.

    Then winter.

    The kind that introduces itself quietly at first.
    A single hard frost.
    Bare branches.
    A thin skin of ice.

    Then snow.

    Then wind.

    Then the sort of cold
    that makes a bright blue scarf question
    perfectly reasonable decisions.

    I walk a mile through a wind chill
    of thirteen below zero
    to take another photograph.

    The bench, meanwhile,
    has traveled nowhere at all.

    By then,
    a question has begun following me
    up and down the trail.

    At what point does a bench
    become an acquaintance?

    Not a friend.
    That would be absurd.

    The bench knows nothing about me.
    It cannot recognize my footsteps.
    It has never once asked
    how I am doing.

    Yet I find myself looking for it
    before I look for the river.

    I notice when a branch falls nearby.
    I wonder how it fared 
    when tornado sirens blared.
    I am relieved to find it waiting
    where I left it.

    The year continues assembling itself.

    Rain after rain.

    Season after season.

    Photograph after photograph.

    One afternoon I stand beside it
    and look across the water.

    A hawk flies overhead,
    followed by a kettle of vultures,
    circling.

    "Something is about to be eaten,"
    I say out loud to no one,
    and I'm a little bit surprised
    there is no answer.

    The trees are busy becoming
    whatever comes after this.

    For a moment,
    neither of us is in a hurry.

    Above the river,
    a branch sways gently in the wind.

    And light moves across the bench
    like a hand.

    —Iris Lennox

  • Overlook

    Three miles out,
    three miles back.

    A reasonable bargain.

    A narrow trail
    threading through stone,

    switchback after switchback,

    until the canyon opens
    without warning

    and the earth falls away.

    I stand there awhile
    kicking tiny pebbles
    just to see
    how far
    they will fall

    or how far I would
    before I step back.

    I sip filtered water
    in peace
    as a lizard does pilates
    against a tuft of pine needles.

    Lizards seem too busy
    for their own good.

    "Relax, have some water,"

    I advise
    as I drip some drops
    his way.

    I adjust my daypack and
    read the small sign
    bolted into the rock.

    The sort of ordinary things
    people do
    when they have arrived.

    Then I turn around
    and walk the trail
    from a new perspective
    before leaving the canyon.

    Or rather,

    my body left.

    My attention
    stayed.

    Days later,
    while folding laundry,

    a ridge appeared
    in the curve of a bedsheet.

    Weeks later,

    a line of shadow
    crossing a parking lot
    became the canyon wall
    at dusk.

    The smell of warm stone.

    The cry of a raven.

    The blue
    that picks you up
    and introduces you to
    heaven
    just before evening.

    I have been home
    for a month.

    The canyon apparently
    pays no attention to distance.

    It keeps turning up

    in laundry,

    in shadows,

    in the space between
    one thought
    and the next.

    For instance,

    Do the mules
    appreciate the view?

    And what became
    of that lizard?

    Did he finish
    his exercises?

    Did anyone else
    give him a puddle?

    Now, as I watch the rain
    fall outside my Missouri window
    I suspect

    an overlook is simply
    a place

    where we can see more 
    than we did before.

    —Iris Lennox

  • Slowness

    A breeze slips through the open back door
    and lifts the top page
    of my notebook.

    The paper rises,
    settles,
    rises again,

    a thin white animal
    testing its legs
    at the edge of my desk.

    The corner taps the wood.

    Once.
    Twice.

    Then the whole page
    breaks loose,
    rolls into itself,
    turns sideways,
    and skitters
    across the floor.

    If paper had knees,
    this one would be bruised.

    A pigeon on the back of an Adirondack
    tilts his head
    and watches the routine.

    I wait for judgment.

    He blinks,
    ruffles one gray shoulder,
    and looks past me
    toward an old oak tree.

    Seven out of ten,
    I decide.

    Generous,
    considering the landing.

    The page rests
    beneath the chair now,
    half-curled,
    one ruled blue line
    sprawling like a vein.

    Outside,
    a dog barks once,
    then again,
    farther away.

    Beyond the back door,
    a squirrel scrapes
    inside the ceramic pot
    where I keep meaning
    to plant basil.

    Somewhere down the street,
    a truck door shuts.

    I hum three notes
    from a song
    someone sang to me once
    and cannot remember
    the next line.

    How many songs
    have been whittled
    down
    to two or three words
    and the shape of a voice?

    The pigeon steps sideways
    along the fence,
    one pink foot
    then the other.

    My notebook waits open.

    The page under the chair
    shivers
    when the breeze returns.

    —Iris Lennox



  • Borrowed Earth

    At the bathroom mirror
    of a rented casita
    somewhere in Flagstaff,
    I discover
    half the desert
    came home with me.

    Red dust
    gathers along my collar,
    settles into the seams
    of my brown canvas backpack,
    which used to be cream-colored,
    and fills the tiny crease
    above my sock line
    where the trail
    outsmarted me.

    When I untie my boots,
    sand pours
    onto ceramic tile
    in two soft cones.

    The room suddenly feels
    like a painting,
    “Composition of Woman
    and Borrowed Earth.”

    Juniper pollen
    clings to the cuffs
    of my sleeves.

    There’s grit
    beneath my fingernails,
    iron-rich and stubborn,
    the color of old brick
    after rain.

    OPI might name it
    Jazz Hands In the Desert.

    I touch my scalp
    and feel dust there too,
    worked deep into my hair
    through wind,
    sweat,
    sunlight,
    and twelve miles
    of canyon trail.

    Good.

    Today earned its right
    to linger a little longer.

    Some people
    spend all day
    trying not to stain themselves.

    I understand the instinct.

    There are white couches.
    Important emails.
    Polished shoes.
    Entire industries
    built around remaining untouched.

    But somewhere between
    mile four
    and the moment
    I sat directly on a warm rock
    without checking
    for dust,
    my body remembered
    something older
    than neatness.

    Children know it first.

    Mud puddles.
    Finger paint.
    Grass stains.

    At one point
    I crouched low
    to photograph
    a cluster of desert marigolds
    forcing themselves
    through fractured stone.

    When I stood again,
    one palm carried sap,
    and a line of sweat
    ran slowly
    from my neck
    down the center
    of my spine.

    Perfect.

    By late afternoon,
    my shoulders glowed pink,
    my lips tasted faintly
    of salt and sunscreen,
    and every object
    inside my backpack
    had acquired
    the thin orange film
    of Arizona.

    Even the map.

    Especially the map.

    I ate trail mix
    with dusty fingers
    and decided
    the extra crunch
    only improved it.

    Somewhere near the ridge,
    a woman passing me said,
    “Beautiful day.”

    Then both of us
    kept walking
    without needing
    to improve
    upon the sentence.

    There's nothing important
    to say
    out there.
    Beauty speaks 
    and we simply listen.

    And feel.
    And I'm convinced—

    The body experiences
    some landscapes
    on a cellular level.

    Scientists eventually  
    gave the phenomenon
    a long Latin name
    after discovering
    certain microorganisms
    in the soil
    can calm the nervous system.

    Mycobacterium vaccae.
    But I think we should call it
    thereasonpeoplecry
    when kneeling in the dirt.

    Meanwhile,
    every child
    who ever came home
    with muddy shoes
    was already conducting
    the experiment.

    Back at the casita,
    the sink runs briefly
    orange-brown
    when I wash my hands.

    Dust circles the drain.

    I pull one sock
    inside out
    and enough sand falls free
    to start a small dune
    beside the bathmat.

    I hope my Airbnb rating
    doesn't take a hit. 

    The shower waits.

    Still,
    I linger a moment longer
    in the mirror,
    sun-tired,
    windblown,
    grinning slightly
    at the woman
    standing there
    with desert
    still gathered
    in every visible place.

    Tonight,
    Arizona leaves slowly.

    One grain at a time.

    —Iris Lennox
    This poem appears in The Giving of Weight.

  • If You’re New to My Poetry

    Grand Canyon landscape representing recurring themes of resilience, memory, voice, and spiritual geography in the poetry of Iris Lennox.
    Grand Canyon landscape reflecting recurring themes of resilience, transformation, spiritual geography, and memory in the poetry of Iris Lennox.

    I recently created a new page called The Poetry and Themes of Iris Lennox, which explores some of the recurring imagery, spiritual landscapes, and questions that continue to shape the work.

    The page traces themes of resilience, voice, desert geography, memory, theatre, and the sacred hidden inside ordinary life. It also gathers together several poems that have become central to the collection over time.

    You can read it here.

  • Small Mercies

    Close-up of brittlebush in a desert wash with yellow blooms and drifting seed heads, accompanying a desert poem by Iris Lennox.
    I crouch beside a dusty wall
    where last season’s brittlebush
    has split open in the heat.

    The seed heads crumble easily
    between my fingers.

    Hundreds loosen at once—

    thin husks,
    needle-fine,
    the color of clay
    after rain trips across
    this foreign land.

    The desert keeps everything small.

    Small leaves.
    Small flowers.
    Small mercies.

    Even the seeds know
    not to ask for too much water.

    Wind moves through creosote
    carrying that sharp green smell
    released after stormlight.

    I gather the seeds carefully
    into a small red handkerchief
    while gravel presses through
    the knees of my jeans.

    Nearby,
    a barrel cactus
    leans sunlight back into the air.

    A curve of lizard tracks
    crosses the sand
    then disappears beneath stone.

    I walk farther into the wash
    where runoff carved narrow channels
    through the earth last monsoon season.

    This is where things take root.

    Not at the top
    where the ground hardens clean and proud,

    but lower—

    where floodwater leaves behind
    what it carried.

    I press the seeds
    into damp pockets of soil
    hidden beneath mesquite shade.

    One handful here.

    Another farther down
    where the sand still holds
    last night’s coolness.

    The wind lifts again.

    One seed catches briefly
    against my wrist.

    Another disappears immediately
    into open country.

    For weeks
    nothing changes.

    Heat gathers.

    Light whitens the stones.

    Cicadas grind the afternoons open.

    Then one morning—

    green.

    So small at first
    I nearly miss it.

    Two leaves lifting
    through grit.

    Then more.

    The land begins filling slowly
    with yellow blooms
    no larger than coins.

    Bees arrive in straight lines
    and swirls.

    Then hummingbirds.

    Then a woman
    walking her old shepherd
    stops beside the flowers
    and smiles at a stranger
    crossing the trail.

    —Iris Lennox
    This poem appears in The Giving of Weight.

  • Triptych: Coming and Going


    Curiosity
    by Iris Lennox

    My little white cat stands at every doorway
    before she enters.
    Perhaps it is fear
    but I think it’s manners,
    and questions that steady her
    upon the threshold.

    Is there anything here
    worth the risk
    it takes to
    leave the safety of the hallway,
    and what will I miss if I do?

    No noise behind her,
    but I sit typing at my desk
    while she
    considers,
    a tiny pink nose weighing her
    options—

    I say hello,
    which changes nothing,
    and now I weigh
    my kindness against her indifference
    as a thread moves across the floor,
    the air purifier
    beckoning it closer.

    My little white cat enters
    not to see me
    but to inspect the thread
    and to
    maybe
    prove the room deserves her
    presence.

    Patience
    by Iris Lennox

    Moose Tracks are easier to eat in a bowl,
    but not nearly as engaging
    as racing to the drips
    spilling over the sides
    of my cone
    and knowing there are
    peanut butter cups gathering
    in the middle.

    Why do the sweetest parts
    hide in the center?

    No one eats M&Ms for the color,
    and you’d embarrass yourself
    if you dared say,
    “the peel is better than the orange.”

    We all know
    some things ask to be opened—
    the banana from the stem,
    the shells at the baseball game,
    the foil around warm chocolate
    you forgot was in your pocket.

    At least,
    for me,
    for today,
    for this moment,

    all I need to do
    is taste sweetness
    with the patience of a toddler,
    unaware of the nature
    of stickiness,

    and save the middle
    for later.

    Father
    by Iris Lennox

    He left before his first Father’s Day
    and mine.

    But at least he left in style,
    with my mother’s car,
    all her cash,
    and glasses
    wrapped in a towel
    because they were
    worth keeping.

    He worked in a bar
    and, from what I hear,
    he lived like he did.

    At least that’s what strangers told me,
    each one carrying
    another adventure.

    Someone up north.
    Another on the west coast.
    Then the east
    before he landed
    in Las Vegas.

    The land of dreams
    won
    and lost
    all in the same night.

    Sounds about right.

    I met my father
    for the first time
    and the last
    one month before he died,

    and every Father’s Day
    I try
    not to care.

    Written in response to three words: curiosity, patience, father.

  • Serotiny

    When summer finds the mountain pine
    and lightning lifts the cedar,
    resin stirs in honey folds,
    drawn inward, held there deeper.

    Thirty winters gather slow
    in snowmelt, moss, and weather;
    hawk-shadow drifts on granite ledge,
    elk trail, stream, and heather.

    High above the darkened slope,
    one sealed and shining chamber
    waits through June, through velvet rut,
    through August dust and ember.

    Then fire—

    swift as wanting,
    hot as blood,
    climbing vein and marrow;

    bark begins to breathe in flame,
    old silence opening narrow.

    Scale by scale
    the cone gives way,
    its hidden weight made lighter;

    seed by seed
    the mountain learns
    what heat can render brighter.

    So place your hand
    behind my neck
    where pulse and promise gather.

    Some forms of love
    arrive as silk and
    some come dressed as weather.

    Some ask softly
    at the door,
    with hands as light as heather.

    Some arrive
    with sparks asleep,
    held deep inside their chamber,

    sealed through ring
    and resin-dark,
    through seed and hidden amber—

    until one touch,
    one living warmth,
    moves slowly through the grain,

    and something
    long acquainted with the dark

    begins

    to speak

    in flame.

    —Iris Lennox
    literary pen name of Jill Szoo Wilson

    This poem appears in The Giving of Weight.

  • Wars and Rumors

    There must have been mornings
    in 1351 
    as the Black Death
    draped across landscapes and 
    eyelids 
    like a thick shroud

    when a mother
    opened her shutters
    to another cart,

    another bell,

    another street
    that smelled of smoke
    and vinegar
    and thought,

    surely

    this is how
    the world ends.

    Men standing
    on the beaches
    of Normandy
    in 1944,

    sand grinding
    between their teeth,

    salt on their lips,

    seawater
    inside their boots,

    diesel, smoke,
    and cordite
    marrying the wind,

    helmets knocking
    against trembling shoulders,

    watching boys
    become bodies
    before breakfast,

    must have wondered
    whether heaven
    had finally
    grown tired of us all.

    And in 1945
    somewhere
    beneath the ash
    of the 
    atomic bombings of 
    Hiroshima and Nagasaki,

    where shadows
    stayed behind
    long after people had gone,

    someone looked upward
    through a sky
    that probably looked more like
    a concrete dome

    and thought,

    this time—

    surely.

    Surely.

    And then,
    one day—

    John

    an old exile
    on an island
    looked up

    and saw

    a lamb

    standing

    as though slain.

    He saw seals
    split open.

    He heard trumpets.

    Watched stars
    fall like figs
    from a shaken tree
    and oceans darken.

    Mountains moved.

    Creatures
    with eyes
    pressed into their feathers
    like dew
    on spring grass,
    seeing forward,
    backward,
    inward,
    through things
    men call mysteries—

    And still—

    this morning,
    2026

    a woman
    in Missouri

    stands barefoot
    at her kitchen sink,
    watching squirrels 
    and robins 
    tumble through
    grass and mud,

    the coffee pot gurgles
    and sighs,

    sunlight,
    with a long list of to-dos
    does 
    what it always has
    through green leaves,

    a sparrow
    argues with a cardinal
    over spilt seed.

    What is inside this moment?
    The past? 
    The future? 
    Only now?

    Yes. 

    The moment of calm. 
    After and 
    before 
    the storm.

    —Iris Lennox