Arrival – River Elizabeth Hall

Sphere of saltwater, jigline tethered 
to an amorphous mother I knew, 
but did not know.
Tidewaters ticking on a moonclock,
intervals of months in seconds.

I, subtle, unglimpsed— a flicker of movement,
new skin inside another’s. Drawn up from 
the bedrock of bone.

                 Surge and pull, pull and surge

                          inclined to a horizon

                             I had no way to see 

                           from within the shushing 

                       maelstrom of the maternal.

                 All un-houred and seamed tight
          pressed above the oculus until
a diadem of flesh warped my skull 
then collared my throat.

I wore my mother one last time, 
one foot socked briefly in the tear, then
dashed wet and slipping into co-existence.

A singular plummet 
to meet the first stranger’s gloved hands
thrown into the light beyond 
the tilt of original darkness.
River Elizabeth Hall

River Elizabeth Hall (she/her) is an educator, poet and naturalist. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Bear Review, Moist Poetry Journal, Pontoon Poetry, Main Street Rag, Nimrod and Tinderbox among others. More about her poetry and other offerings can be found at

Share your thoughts

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.