oceanographer’s lullaby
i used to think the earth was yeast—
kneaded under lovey stupid fingers into
something
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,
water-smoke.
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
america.