Ground grows up through us
voice fills the wrist, fingers
feather wind as it turns leaves
reading a text that inches out
to branch tip, leaping into flight.
Form is not shape, not the billet
split from stave, when you bind
these wounds what emerges is not
winged lacerations, when you bind
these words this form remembers flame,
her hands fill with ash of what was not tree.
Pines long for lightning, intimate
embrace of sky, rain is memory
of sea brought back to tongue
of land, the body is ever an uncertainty
the form is frail, words hunger for mouth,
curled in wet darkness, snug beneath
tongue, breathing the light of utterance.
The eye holds horizon in abeyance,
wave is a unit of measure
for absence, those who return by moonlight
hauling the shell up the shelving, past
tideline but not quite to sea oats,
delivering a message of continuity.
We are as interlocked as mangrove
a forest of basketry, canopy of egret
and spoonbill, this not a place of deep roots,
tide pulls moon over Gulf, respiration of sea,
deep breath of azure, clear blue of flame,
breathing as cumulus flowers, lightning
flowing into wave, so many tomorrows buried
above wrack line.
Wind of ash, wind of burning,
some live within blade of day
some within wing of night,
words you leave in a bowl of sky
could be sparks, could be stars,what sleeps in the marrow
prepares itself to fly, bone riven,
phosphorescence spilling from mouth.
Bio: Peach Delphine is a queer poet from Tampa, Florida. Infatuated with what remains of the undeveloped Gulf coast.