I turn
an open eye
to you,
.
A cold reflection
of silver.
.
Mouth wide,
seeking shelter
In the eclipse,
where motherhood
sits undisturbed, absent.
.
You, an arch
that smothers
and suffocates,
summoning return.
.
A drag of a wave,
gesturing panic,
beckoning it.
.
Enmeshed,
You suck the air
out of the room.
.
Silence overwhelms
like an invasion.
.
I breathe you in
and out,
.
A passive pull
and violent propulsion.
.
And my daughters
who do not belong to me,
.
They are sea salt
and coral bone,
exalting you—
And you reply.
About the Creator
Eve Hill
Eve’s work is confessional, intimate, and unafraid of exposure. Anchored in real recollection, she writes about moments that unmake us. Through raw testimony, she unpicks the delirium and aftermath of loving, losing, and surviving yourself.
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