Two Poems by Peach Delphine w/images by Moira J. Saucer

IceFloe Press

Day Returns

we sleep in the downspout of weather,
tropical systems swamp dry season dust
settling in our lungs, we are saturated
with longing, small black ants dismembering
a carcass, wings disappearing into cracks,
we breath of joinery, old wood,
sleeping pine, limbs dripping with resin
nails bent in the flesh.

Our mothers buried our names
behind azaleas, not yet incandescent,
beneath magnolias, thick with shade,
moss from oaks is what great grandmother
gathered for mattresses, soaked in water
to be rid of redbugs, dried, fluffed, stuffed
in ticks sewn up by her mother.

Granny said dreams wait in the mattress
for when we sleep, perhaps if we stretched
out on the dirt some we could share dreams
of trees, of a fat possum, high in the palm,
of moth in oak, transformed only for a week
vestigial mouth, filling our night with wings,
perhaps if we slept at tideline

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