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