Lynne Friedman
Come tattered dawn
As creek is not slough, I am not man,
as heron is not egret, I am not woman,
as coral is not blade I am the edge of cutting,
blood tongued, ash throated, teeth blackened
by cinders, surfacing at slack water,
floating under cascades of moss along river,
cypress lunging skyward, cabbage palm squat
mirrored in obsidian current, in this land of flowering,
singing sawgrass, mangrove, needle rush, a tidal zone
pollinated by fierce bees, windblown, houseless.
Nocturnal of necessity, feral being a perspective
dismissive of fences, roofs and doors,
we approach the world windowless,
feeding the breath of fire in a small stove,
black skillet seasoned with cayenne
onions, garlic, olive oil shimmering, iron
on the spider, blue eye of flame liquified
sky, circumference describes the mouth,
another boundary flattened by word, flesh
taut with hunger, stuffed with wreckage
of memory.
There is a name, unspoken, for the shadow
of the oven door, or what oak throws
against the wall, darkness not quite to the tooth,
a taste of what’s to come, shade speaking
of salt. Moon has never raised a blade
against this pale throat, cold mirror
reflecting the greater fire even fiercer
in its indifferent burning, is there a surface
to any star or just the boiling off of flame,
we interrogate celestial bodies, knowing
they have no words for what we have carved
into our forms, living glyphs, testament
to our lack of faith, “it’s just a phase”
is a genteel expression meaning,
“nail the box shut and kick it off the bridge.”
The duration of the descent amplifies
acceleration before impact, when I wake
each morning, horizon growing heavier,
each wave a summoning of open water,
fluid flows through me, restless thick hydraulics,
sorrow clamped to the day, night flowering
tide, so much remains to be given, so much
remains to be heard, so many lacerations drifting
in the current, every margin sharpened
to revelation, glittering schools of moonlight,
sea of vast migrations, a returning to estuaries
of spawning, all our origins are liquid, singing.
Peach Delphine is a queer poet from Tampa, Florida. A resident and advocate of the littoral zone, former cook. Devout reader, lazy gardener. Can be found on Twitter @PeachDelphine.
Lynne Friedman’s work has been shown in solo exhibitions at the Booth Western Art Museum (GA), Galleria Nacional (Costa Rica), the James McNeil Whistler Museum and numerous solo shows in New York City including Noho Gallery and Prince Street Gallery among others in the Chelsea District of NYC. Additionally her work was selected for the U.S. Department of State Art-in-Embassies Program for Djibouti, E. Africa and Colombo, Sri Lanka. Her work is in many corporate and private collections including Pfizer, McGraw Hill, IBM, Columbia Presbyterian Hospital, Pace University, Ritz Carleton Hotels and City National Bank. She has received seven artist residency grants to work in Spain, Costa Rica, Ireland, Southern France and New Mexico. She received a BA and MFA in Art from Queens College, an Ed.D. from Columbia University and studied at the New York Studio School. Previously a college art teacher she now works full time painting.