By Peach Delphine

Day thick, soggy sponge stuffed in the mouth, a kitchen 
where all things are on the table, mockingbird rendering 
another borrowed song just off the porch, lamentations
ride the breeze. Who has not wished to live in a crown 
of palms, lithe, shimmering, skink knows the weight 
of eye, gaze of another ocean. Having stood over 
myself, fluid as creek, lacerations in hand, salt of my salt,
face to sky as wind eats words off my tongue in shade 
of cypress and moss, we summon ourselves out of 
floorboards, we speak from behind lath and plaster, 
in kitchen garden we turn rows, pull weeds, our parenting 
was of rain, of dirt, your words flower along the river,  
we breathe a mother tongue, text of soil, intonation
of verdure, what some call erosion, a return to the sea, 
a tide governed by a different moon, what some call night 
a different incandescence than what illuminates
your hands, planting each day anew, sowing black earth,
lifting salt wind into song, raising river into flower.

Peach Delphine is a queer poet from Tampa, Florida. Former cook infatuated with what remains of the undeveloped Gulf coast and blackwater rivers. Delphine can be found on Twitter.