Declination

By Peach Delphine

East is flat woods and sunrise,
old, old rivers whose names
take flight on slow wing strokes,
with no one to ask the way,
we turn west to mangrove
needle rush, walking towards sunset
open water beyond, the weight of this heat
compresses each breath

Horse conch is our signifier
stalking turtle grass, tonguing out
lightning whelks, we wade this shore, 
flowering mouth of hibiscus, 
dark eye of wind, heat
is upon us thick as cane syrup
suddenly loosened into sheen,
husked words swirling into the Gulf, 
void filled with liquidity,
it was not the voice of sea

Some thought it a cloud
or a long flight of pelicans
wave top gliding, not yet ready
to make the plunge, this shore
fragrant with names, migrations
above and below, wave is not the boundary
our lips would make of it
residency is not immunity

To measure the angle
between true north and our actions
is not the work of a compass,
the articulation of hand and eye
requires the same balance,
the same willingness to measure
the weight of all we do,  just as always
the sea finds us, rising tide

We are terrified of memory
we are intoxicated with memory,
right hand, left hand, we listen
no longer to wind or pine,
shards of light, shards of wave
our innermost names all
inscribed here, edge upon curve,
coral grinding away all our denials, 
all our declarations of innocence,
we remain, at the point of choosing,
wordless, there being no wind, 
as the long fetch of Gulf sloshes to stillness, 
a chorus of gulls singing us into sunset

Peach Delphine is a queer poet from Tampa, Florida. Former cook, proud Mama of a thoroughly
spoiled dog. Infatuated with the undeveloped Gulf coast. Can be found on Twitter @ Peach Delphine.