Methodology by Peach Delphine

there is no stillness for the Gulf, relentless

as tide, no pause in the cacophony of thought,

rest is what we steal from those we serve,

shucked tongue, bucket of utterance,

what he promised was that place

where every word means fuck,

where every breath contains

the echo of fuck,

he was a man on a motorcycle,

“get on”, without hesitation ” hold my belt”

pressed against his back, nectar thick

night, the other girls ” you’ll be sorry”

still it catches in my throat, becoming

what he desired, sweeter than cane or guava,

the salt of all my wounds never tasted

so much of the sea,

screaming across the causeway, bay a flat

mirror of light splayed out, spars of amber,

spikes green and red, pulling off onto shell,  
crushed limestone, cabbage palms, legs shaking

he has to help me off the bike, ‘shake it off, sister’’
leans on the guardrail, unbuttoned his trousers,

“time to lubricate the revolution” kneeling

four lanes of west bound traffic swirling, my hair

knotted in his hand,

slow tongues of river
pulled at the long beards of oaks,
we sat on the benches, deviled crabs,
squirt packets of hot sauce, cuban sandwiches,
tall boys in paper bags, ‘’time you came out,

people need to know the who and what’’
he wanted to mark my body,

hand, strap, tooth and mouth,

he said it was a warning

of volatility,

of flammability, an icon

of availability, the laceration belly up

in the glyph, another text

he would mouth

driving it home,

we exhale the night

already sweet as mango,

wrists in his hands,

he made of my flesh a tablet,

red lettering every scar,

opening every flower, summoning

every fragrance by word alone,

before ever laying hands on me,

an utterance slick and powerful

as if the Gulf itself had set its tide
scouring out the emptiness

he had come to claim,

gathering, gathering all

this form could offer,

relentless desire

filling his hands