a literary magazine.
Five Poems...
-creatures revealed by hewing-
pine warblers swirl through sand oak,
an interior structure of moss, epiphytes,
dreaming of ocean till tide overflows
mouth, small tendrils of what will become
riptides feathering in your hair, the pelicans
of our eyes holding all our departures,
so much mullet, moonlight rolling belly to back,
egret or cloud,something ash soft lifts
from mangrove running downwind,
amber sunlight, syrup humidity, you
are the cutting surface arcing from tongue
to teeth, sparking breath flowing between us,
gulls wove their voices into a seine, we thrash
about in the shallows, spoonbills render
a heavy verdict, polished as we are, wire
honed off the edge, living this close to the bone,
a darker Gulf reaches into the absence
of our respiration, moonflower sets herself
to climb the palm, fragrance of your hands,
pine sings of lightning, another heart longing to burn
*rumrunner
broken handle of tomorrow rattles as screen
door slaps shut(quick enough to catch the old dog)
porch slopes south southwest,( yawning in the face
of weather), tide scoured, left with sand emptiness,
burnished ( relentless) morning light, sweaty
and gritted from walking back without shade,
melancholy, (meaning eater of dirt, meaning shell cracker)
barnacles scraped from a piling into a frenzy
of sheepshead, (sloppy) chop of Gulf and bay, upriver,
gator prefers possum, thick with hog plum, the wind hole
each tree sprouts,( forest of tongues ankle tangled),
we are assimilated by so many flowers, pileated opens
nail holes, the body of pine weeps, (resin of the barked
hide), feathered down into a nest of shavings, by lightning
or match the burning arrives, common tongue of palmetto,
hog plum, wiregrass, shadow (in the current) resides
in patience, even hauled out,( basking), it waits, adrift
on the creek, your body heavier than azure stone
of sky beyond your shoulder, once I felt the slow roll
I knew I was yours, a different drowning, (a different
burning), a different cargo carried out to the Gulf
-Of the scraggliest tangerine-
Song comes for you across palmetto
shouldering flat topped pines, wiregrass
slowly shedding dew, what you have forsaken
standing at the tailgate, "that's the skinning knife"
slab hands of slash pine, cat faced cheek full
of chaw, taking up the blade, this hand began
working edge before she could ride a bicycle,
it wasn't the show he expected, washing up
I could hear the slow chant of clouds, "you can't cut
a cutter" rolling off into the cypress,cumulus grinding
out sparks on spires of verdure, the dead eye knowing
the almost blue glittering edge of horizon by taste
and feel, we are one as billet was once limb
before voice broke free of the bark, blackwater
scouring roots of old oaks, great mats interwoven, buttressing sluiceway of river, what was forsaken
will not yield, not render into ash and cinder, memory
is the blade I take to all your ghosts, one by one put to rest beneath the pines, it's how the song finds them, lured
across the river, layed in the dirt, flowering in shade
-renunciation of elegy-
angled as a bevelled edge, buoyant memory taste
of cutting surfacing on another wave, this is no plea
for mercy, bronze ingot boiling away sea, cooking blood
down to ooze, cracked lips and six miles to water,
shell held to my ear, heavy as the light on the bay, leaden
waves beaten into pale flowering, your granny talked
of tinctures, tupelo honey, ginger tea, how hot peppers,
pickled onions kept her regular how she could only
stomach black, black coffee, having been "spoonfed
enough sugar to strangle a cow", she looked me over
while you tore up her cold fried chicken, fan oscillating
on the counter, " so you're like her?" lighting a smoke,
her hand on mine, the weight lingers still, sometimes
you remain within the listening, sometimes I still feel
your hand around my waist, when day takes its first
hard breath I hear you then, mourning dove on the power
line, a road of dust in my mouth, your hands of silk and ice water, we always said there'd be no mercy for such as us, same as your granny at the kitchen table, exhaling,
"you come eat with us, then", the weight still lingers, wind
leans into the palms as Gulf reflects obsidian sky, ash,
long lacings of lightning come unraveled, we were each
of us accelerant awaiting combustion, sparks threaded
through tongues, flame the only remaining remedy.
-I've seen people spin plates-
the word is a stone, crow dropped,
a nugget of sunshine wedged beneath
tongue, resin weeps from cracked bark
of hands, shredded into smoke flowering
voices, spall of uncertainty cuts the thin
bloodline, drawn forth the word is a thorn,
wound without clotting seeping vermilion,
recitation is chert striking iron, sparking
a cascade of names, slowly, we become flame,
othering, othering, othering into ash
Bio: Peach Delphine is a queer poet from Tampa, Florida. Can be found on Twitter @PeachDelphine