John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Front Range Review, Studio One and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Naugatuck River Review, Abyss and Apex and Midwest Quarterly.
You were the only woman I ever knew
whose name was the same
as the color of your eyes.
It wasn’t intentional, so you said.
I was the first
whoever spoke the one
while staring into the other.
I felt blessed to have made the connection.
Though I didn’t know it then,
I had the Tyndall scattering of
light in the stroma to thank.
I just figured it was as natural
as the thrill that went with gentle touch
and not the combination of Rayleigh scattering
and a drop of melanin in the iris’s anterior border layer.
But I was no scientist.
Just a romantic with a color fixation.
No, I never met a blue or an amber
or a brown or a gray,
just you, one night, at a club
where the light above
did its best to flesh out every willing hue.
We danced. We sat. We danced again.
And you told me your name was Hazel.
You opened your eyes wide as you said it.
And your polygenes looked the part.