Brian Sumner

My Home Is (⠍⠽⠀⠓⠕⠍⠑⠀⠊⠎)

a lamenting sky crying all afternoon in the summer
dewy mornings kiss you the 8am grievances of humidity
sweating St. Augustine grass ↗pushes↖ through the roots of a backyard grapefruit tree

soft marsh following the pressures of mindful moving feet, buoyant and lush.
Opaque curtains of Spanish moss,
streams of sunlight materialize through the epiphytic tapestry
a braided oak, a mastodonic cypress looms

warm Atlantic soaked memories, an ocean of orange blossoms along the highway
saline waters from the gulf coupled with adhesive sand,
a °○○°°gurgling○°○°° swamp under white sun in another’s springtime

a Saturday morning drive to Rainbow River.
Palm trees, hearts warm, shy in the wind and cast their shadows
dressing us in veiled swaying shelter

pool water drying in your ears, ashening (my) melanated skin
bent elbows and pressed palms leaping forward ↷↷↷
from released tension as feet leave grounded boulders in Wekiva Springs

an aural backdrop, a bright vibrating seasonal hum
mating songs of male cicadas, the sound of a Florida summer
nymphs emerging from the ground to blossom
sloughed exuviae my memory never went searching for
molting into melodies belting from tree bark

a psalm sung from a palm tree east of the Mississippi River
southern gothic literature swatting away mosquitoes
sun, saltwater, lightning, and sweet citrus–a striving desolate beauty
an alligator remaining steadfast on colonized Indigenous land

my home is,
more than meets the visiting eye.

¹ Rain, like the thumping of fingers on organ keys
a tactile dance of adagietto to vivace
dampening timpani songs drumming onto skin
droplets descending, diverting directions
braille falling from the dewy pages of the sky
massaging embossed messages
Mother, what is your pressing memorandum?

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