by Peach Delphine

on the seawall in a dress almost cerulean,
eyes stacked with clouds, lightning tangled,
wave riding wind, the right hand won’t repent
the left still sings of cutting,
all those dreams of being
human, blown out to sea,
drowning beyond horizons arc,

it ain’t never done, till we’re gone, even then,
laceration flowers, bears fruit, stacked flights
of stars climb from behind sandbar and shelf
cloud, trash can on concrete
echoes of thunder,

weather dialog, conversation liquid as grackles,
planting guava, digging beds for cowpeas,
we no longer talk of fleeing, the queer endure
what they must, blade beneath my tongue, time
of hand a defining principle of human interaction,
the only safe space is interior,

clarity is what clots in the wound,
once we are gone someone else will have to bleed,
flowering iron and rust,
the safely seated will cut you loose,
fingers dancing on the gunnel,
self care is never cheap,
in the triage of necessities we’ve already been tagged,
not that they were ever our bodies, organs of the state,
just a breathing space,
so many have claimed this flesh
for their own, the state has nailed my tongue
to a dead name
as gatekeepers whisper condolences
from behind bolted doors,

those of us who no longer exist commend you,
authorized identities intact, as we diminish,
fog through which night treads,
heart of pine longing to burn,
a runout delivered
by lightning and a rising creek,
we are what must be
destroyed to be seen,
another articulation of smoke
as mirror empties itself of all reflection,
deadlight

Peach Delphine is a trans poet from Tampa, Florida.