oceanographer’s lullaby


i used to think the earth was yeast—

kneaded under lovey stupid fingers into


untranslatable: a god like a river

with no mouth.


i used to dream

in blackwater and passive

margins, imagine that i could speak giddy

the language of deepsouth longing


in reality, my body teaches itself only rot.

saline, tidal range, heliotrope, goat milk—


my sister says i write about things i don’t

        understand—like the crisp anatomy

of dissatisfaction, the way rain rolls over

the lowlands in surrender,




somewhere, i’m kissing an oceanographer

right at this very moment and neither

of us know it until our throats


close up with the swell—baby,

let’s build ourselves a river delta and settle.

kiss my eyes until i see anew—

kiss my lungs until i’m quiet. show


me yeast all soupy and palpable

like fresh baked bread under moon-

mouth skies and the spring tide.

show me how it feels to be

home alone in nowhere