Witching Hours

by River Elizabeth Hall


In the hours before dawn,

the clock isn’t a clock,

it’s a dim recognition

of light cast on time.


I wake up this time,

beg to fall back asleep.

Fear I cannot root a dream

to the soil of my exhaustion.


I wonder how many jam jars of words I could fill by morning—

how many jars of hot blood I contain,

how many jars of self-doubt,

how many jars of tired, of ache,

of unexacted possibilities?


My slick heart could slip neatly into a jar—

an unbecoming place for my devoted metronome,

the beat of blood defying gravity,

its final rhythms thump against the glass.



River Elizabeth Hall is a poet, short fiction writer and naturalist. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Cirque, Into the Void, Sunspot Lit, and Tinderbox Poetry Journal among others. She was a semi-finalist in the 2019 Brett Elizabeth Jenkins Poetry Award.



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