Poetry by Erin Marie Hall

Grave to Grave
 
Come the fog and the forgetting; the broken screen
door barking closed. Come blood from the foot, a
quiet escape. That haunted season pulled close like
a sweater, a lit match summoned from nothing. You
were ghostlike. Did you know? Seeping up from
hallowed ground, unraveled into ether, filled with
soil.  I washed my hair in sweet molasses, bent over
a birdbath in the rain. Savored bruises that were
named like constellations. Three nights I didn’t
sleep, holding vigil with the crows. Yes, they too
knew ancient need, that blooming hunger. You
emerged from stone, and I remembered the knife
that cut us clean from our mothers’ ribs. We were
children of necromancy then, our eyes peeled open
only for the moon. Now I can hear our future bodies
speaking softly, grave to grave, in a thousand years
and not a moment sooner.

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Erin Marie Hall is an emerging poet, visual artist, and witchy woman from South Bend, Indiana. She has a B.A. in English from Indiana University and is now investigating MFA options. Her work, which explores nostalgia, the occult, mental illness, the apocalyptic, and the strange relationship between the self and the body, appears in Rust + Moth, (b)OINK, Rogue Agent, The Ellis Review, and others. You can find more of her work at erinmariehall.com, silly poetry thoughts on Twitter, and selfies on Instagram.