My mother asks if I've prayed, still
with deadname on her lips,
if by prayer
she means dicing onion, celery
bell pepper, sausage, smashing garlic
setting the iron pot on medium flame,
making of a tradition not mine, a meal,
then yes, such is my prayer, litany
beneath a voiceless sky, abomination requests
no mercy, makes no supplication, walking
down the street, neighbors eyes, flat
as whetstone, slurry of blade
dripping from their tongues.
Pressed against the wire honed
off edge, it has always been so, one
split into three, into seven then thirteen,
splintered, riven, the self of pine
shaved down into feathered curls
anticipating flame, not yet, not yet
exhaling smoke or soft words of ash.
If by prayer
she means an iron pot, smoking with roux,
or the making of each day, hands scarred
by flame and blade, what becomes of the unseen, rind
without condiment or salt, what becomes
of the unspoken, breath languid as cypress,
thick ropes of moss floating over blackwater, darkness
seeping from our bones.
Survival is just more of the same,
blade never quite worn away, empty
bucket of mouth, gasping at humidity,
hands flowering with making, moss
holds evening light, wing of spoonbill,
smooth curl of conch spiralling into the sound
of wave sloshed on sand, memory is not linear,
flame making tongue, word making sea, moon making shell, if my name is unpronounceable
yet again from a palate hardened
by indifference, of what use prayer,
always stir with a wooden spoon,
never walk away from a roux, darkening
in the pot, the making of a meal is the making
of a name, the loss of a name is the loss
of a shell on a beach where sea repeats
it's litany, day after day, if by prayer
she means how black skimmer inscribes
wave, the moving surface of all
that remains unsaid, then yes, yes again,
such is my prayer.
Peach Delphine is a queer poet from Tampa, Florida. Twitter: @Peach Delphine