Iris M Mora is a postgraduate student attending the MA in writing program at NUI Galway. She graduated from the University of Central Florida where she holds an Honors in the Major for her thesis novella titled, The Third Island. Her poetry has been published in The Cypress Dome Society and Literary Magazine 2015 Edition. www.irismmora.com
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Green

is not the shades of color on your face
with moles of crows, and spotted cows
sheep of black, and white teeth caps
or the hair of stone–solid memories of burials past.

It’s not the song, the Celtic tap
of Irish shoes, and string
that moves its people in their glee
to a Guinness pub.
But the spirit, an emerald heart
embossed with roaring hills,
grey clouds, and ocean swells that call,
to make Ireland my wishful home.

Bowl to Bowl

You made me into a fish,
placed my body in a bowl
filled with lemon Jell-O.

I swam there for weeks,
ate what you fed me,
listened to you being a rebel.

Before I got too big,
you left your door open
and let a stranger walk-in.

I was stolen from you,
removed from my home,
before I had stopped breathing.

From your bowl, I was tossed into another
chopped into pieces,
before being cooked in an oven.

War

Bleeding neighbors fleeing, deployed bombs blasting, mother’s screams breaking silence.
War
Childhood home collapsing, ruptured eardrums throbbing, shards in skin penetrating.
War
Machine gun bullets dissipating, clacking chains rotating, gulping poisoned water.
War
Sisters lost lamenting, witnessing predators raping, food un-sustaining.
War
Soldiers fighting, killing, killing, killing, murdering.
War
Unresponsive fathers’ bodies rotting.
War
Future minds collapsing.