mostly owls, flat woods

here we are again, sweeping the porch,
nailing salvation to the door, shucking day
from azure shell, cypress heavy with ibis,
my eyes are ash, my hands are gone, lost
in the black river water, slipping downstream
confluence of moon and oyster, not that night
is ever empty, sleep being the work of the devil,
canned goods and truth stacked in the pantry,
spectral fish circle baseboards, bone crunching
fin to barbel we consume, juicing down the day,
a table laid in urgency beneath a cloth splattered
sky, emptiness of horizon where color of sea
scours orbit, heavy shade of pine, no certainty
but crow has found something out of place, calls
piercing leafage of drowse, board, blade, garlic, 
flat leaf, lemon, skillet holding court on the front 
burner, onions and peppers caramelize, a different menu 
than what cooked us up, a different sustenance than what
scrub offered, joyous and solemn songs of coyote, 
pines shivering as wind shoulders through, 
this is the mother tongue, thicket in motion,
an arrival of tide, the form received.

Peach Delphine is a queer poet from Tampa, Florida. Former cook and sometimes gardener infatuated with what remains of the undeveloped Gulf coast.