by Marianne Paul
Sea is Not the Word for Desire
Anguish
is what goes in the pot,
with mirepoix and bay,
jagged is how the dull blade
of thunder tears the sky of rain,
despair is not the word for salt,
blood is not the taste of sea,
scar is not the word for sunset.
Shards
of past better than any stone
or upturned bowl
for sharpening, cutting
is not the word for knife,
laceration is not the word for suture,
self-inflicted is carved in bone.
Here on the creek, iron pot on the fire,
skiff pulled up beneath buttonwood,
shed roof rusted out, sturdy patch of shade,
we burn driftwood to soothe the night,
as sky sheds azure, opening to all our songs,
of starlight and smoke.
Sea,
wind soused, sleeping in the language of tide,
speaking from the inward curl of whelk,
reciting all the innermost names still unchosen.
You promise to fill the emptiness of my hands,
you say this form
is the form you have always loved,
you say the emptiness of my eyes
is the endless fetch of waves from the Middle Ground.
Verdure
is the weather of our beginnings,
coral is the accretion of all we endure,
fire is the element we have nourished ,
we enter the water, we swim as if pelagic ,
we know the current of longing
we resist the shore, returning with tide,
you gather what the Gulf has rolled
into the sand, we stand facing wind,
as if anguish was a flavor never tasted,
as if bitter were no more than salt,
words you pour into my hands being drifts of delicate shells,
wave polished strands
sun glittering, all our horizons
water bound, all our songs
smoke, shell and starlight,
slow cadence of waves,
echoing in the mouth of wind,
mangrove blazing with birdsong
and plumage
Peach Delphine is from Tampa, Florida. Former cook, infatuated with the undeveloped Gulf coast.
Marianne Paul is a Canadian poet. When she’s not playing with words, she dabbles in bookbinding, visual art, and gentle kayaking. She can be found on Twitter @mariannpaul, Instagram @ms.haiku, and on the web, at mariannepaul.com