Tag Archives: Peach Delphine

Not spoon, not roux

By Peach Delphine

Breeze so thick you could

make a gravy of it, blue jay speaks into every room,
woodstork eyes lantana below the porch where lizards 
bask, bobbing brown heads, orange throat display, 
small sunsets closing, bird peppers red beaked,

 when she spoke

there was a shimmering, across vast distance, starlight, 
we stack words  like cordwood, wedged between trees,
we burn relentlessly, sleep in ash, leaf dreaming,

 dark mouth of the river, current

swallowing us, as light is split, variations shuffled,
a revelation, technical, precise, a great gathering 
awaits, an ever expanding  aggregate, we are buoyed 
by words that will not splinter,

hog wire fence, thicket beyond,

pines flake bark, slabs and sheets, leaves of a codex
 we once burned as if others were being written, 
as if demanding a carcass be transformed into sustenance 
doesn’t require a different prayer than was once recited,

woodpecker chisels grubs

from flesh of sand oak, crow in the pine speaks of weather,
rain measures itself against palmetto, squat in downpour, we remember we were never alone in the absence
of our companions, shore of fishbone, whistling wind,
fireflies incandescent, fullness of birdsong, with  dawn

cormorant fishes, gathering moonlight,
whelk conceals lightning,
oystercatcher has not yet
pried open invocation.


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.

Crow in pine

By Peach Delphine

A new surface settles, slow as sand in water, 
sediment of memory, days without sea or trees 
of pelicans, a great beam of wind tumbling across 
oyster beds, kicking up white caps, leaning on salt
marsh, shaking out black mangrove, buttonwood, 
as the being is not the body, shell, broken in time, 
becomes beach, she entered a record of names, 
all that could be remembered, never enough, she walked
into sunrise, sleepless, she listened to river, fish, tree,
she wrote into the space that became door, once opened, 
a word of ocean, narrowing tide of distance and absence,
if only for a moment we speak as waves, of shell, wind,
sky, what we each hold broken, the relentless motion
binding us to these forms, a balancing hand in time.


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.

Crow in mulberry, the darkest eye of all

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.