Poetry: wave is a circular motion by Peach Delphine

Out of the wound
we come singing
a chorus of wings
swallowed by daylight.

Hand that balances wind
waiting on the surface,
out from the creek, free diving,
descending from surface warmth,
gathering shells,
ascending in one long exhalation,
leaving the squeeze of depth
and coldness behind.

There is a voice in lightless sea,
entering through eye,
answering voice of shadow
buried beneath sternum
coiled about spine, always
we feel the vibrations
in our feet and hands
always we feel the wire
of edge, the burnished arc
of time.

This form has become shadow
of cloud, darkening shallows
for a moment, turtle grass,
blue crabs, bonnethead sharks,
ponderous and seeking tongue
of horse conch, the sea is indifferent
to this body, the multiplicity of forms
has buoyed me out past the Key of memory
into the open Gulf of sapphire
reflected in your eyes.

Surfacing breathless, unfolded

from palms the optic remains unspoken,
fronds shimmering with morning,
a spent shell lifted from shallows,
empty of body,
my own emptiness filled with sea
restlessly seeking reunification
with the greater body
an ebb and flow of so many small voices
in the roots of mangrove,
a clinging of barnacles
to our mothering wood,
leaves of voices lifting
to azure, a different blue
than your eyes reflecting
sea and horizon.

from palms the optic remains unspoken,
fronds shimmering with morning,
a spent shell lifted from shallows,
empty of body,
my own emptiness filled with sea
restlessly seeking reunification
with the greater body
an ebb and flow of so many small voices
in the roots of mangrove,
a clinging of barnacles
to our mothering wood,
leaves of voices lifting
to azure, a different blue
than your eyes reflecting
sea and horizon.

Peach Delphine is a queer poet from Tampa, Florida. Infatuated with what remains of the undeveloped Gulf coast.

white clouds

Poetry by Peach Delphine – Entanglement

-Entanglement-


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.

windmill covered with fog
photo from Unsplash by Casey Horner

2 Poems by Peach Delphine: Coyote Song & 84 (any scar)

Coyote Song

Not yet dead already ash,

Already invisible, unknowable,

Smell the sea just beyond the pines,

Hear the wind combing out salt Marsh,

Osprey call, mullet get eaten,

Gather up what you can

We will flee with falling light, with coyote song,

Emptiness of waves welcome us, mangrove

Conceal our passing,

Not yet dead, already gone,

Sleep with one foot against the door,

It’s your neighbors that will come for you,

After coffee, eggs and bacon,

What my father never knew,

The sharpest blade

Is for cutting sorrow.

84 (Any Scar)

Cutting was the secret language

of moon and moss

textured layers of shadow

without day or spark

oaks hold themselves penultimate

ancient in a landscape of erosion

cabbage palms shaggy

with my supplications

sheaves of paperwork

endless recitations of symptoms

a midden of discarded words

what we cast off

wave tumbled round

sea is my only certainty

liquid incandescence

saltier than blood

smoother than any scar

Poetry by Peach Delphine : Weight and Shadow

After Granny passed
they divided her possessions,
an aunt took her best cast iron
painted them with country themes
for kitchen decorations.
The three legged camp oven
I dug out of the trash,
her favorite gumbo spoon,
the iron pot,
potato masher,
her old knives,
black handled from fat,
and the old chipped serving bowl
she taught me to hone them with,
on its unglazed foot.
Pawpaw would say, “if you need a blade sharpened, take it to Mama”
then I came along,
flesh made whetstone,
and taught the knives to sing,
so many tongues sprouting verdure,
so much cutting in those pots,
so much emptiness filled,
ciphers of transformation incised.
An unnatural relationship
is what she called it
before dragging me in front of Pawpaw,
“look at the child’s arm,
look at the child’s leg”
and they both wept,
“Why?”
left unanswered on the linoleum.
Echoing hollowness,
how to say broken,
how to say, “this cut is smoke, this cut is flame, these cuts are sea, this the language of
laceration”
wind of emptiness swimming in the grove,
staring out the screen door
oranges in bloom, bee heavy,
sink dripping, mockingbird
rendering some other bird’s song.
Time does not dissipate
the weight of their fear
still heavy in my hands,
their grief still a shadow

in every reflection.
The iron pot still on my stove,
the spoon in its rest
and every blade in its place,
honed effortless,
glittering book of psalms

Twitter @PeachDelphine

Patience of egrets (c) Peach Delphine

This shore of conch and mangrove,

Rain, our mother tongue,

Cast down as glyphs beaten into sand,

It requires the patience of egrets

The long glide of pelicans

To endure the loss of your hands

Weight of your body in the warm night

As clock light breathes against the ceiling

 

This weather of absence, so much moonlight

Contained by scars, delicate

Tracery of struggle, cartography of dreams, your words still summon to this shore,

Congregation of spoonbills gathered for tide

 

The shyness of alligators,

The call and response of owls,

A world not yet fallen into shadow

The plumage of night folds into palms,

It requires the roots of mangrove

To weather these waves, long fetch

Of sleepless absence,

Each day a shell curving upon itself

The sound of emptiness 

Coiled within my ear, the sand of loss

Pouring from my hands

 

Follow @peachdelphine on Twitter