These poems mark the passage into my 30s, tracing the space between who I was before and who I am becoming. The final poem is for my daughter, inspired by our coastal walks together and her habit of searching the water for boats, whales, and hidden sea life. The series is also a tribute to FAR, and how the community has held me during times of change and transition.
Low Tide
leaves bare:
a stretch
of sand
pulled into
night.
What is left:
gull-cries
of memories,
fears,
abandoned
shells of intentions.
The shape I take
when no one
sees: a thin seam
of light, caught
between silt.
Balancing
against the weight
of wind,
hands stretch
to opposite skies.
Each step
demands attention:
the art of
leaning
without falling,
of standing
without
insistence.
Pomegranate
He kisses me
like a pomegranate,
open and deep.
My mouth
a paper rose.
My heart
an anchor
across sand,
his, the wings
of an anxious bird.
Love Flight of a Pink Candy Heart
Dearest younger self, you once loved
iron dove balconies, weeping
willow trees, dancing
in the golden light,
flying high
on angel’s
wings.
Another
Once upon a time, home meant holding on
to another body and the world felt full
of language, yet the poem wrote itself slowly
in the sippy cup and plastic truck and bedtime story.
And the poem knew how to be wordless
like a leaf pattern, in ways the baby could comprehend
more than the culture of things,
the uneven welcomeness of stuff.
And the poem was once new
against me, a universe
feather-wrapped in my arms.
It was once lullabies and moonlight
through windows, the way my ribs
once rearranged to make more room.
Hagiography of the Postpartum Body
Silvered, holy lines,
my body is a living text:
the golden seam holds.
Green Witch
I, too, have dug:
pressed heart-shaped bulbs
into ink-dark soil, and
reached for lamb’s lettuce
past bruise-green shadows.
Measured seasons in leaves
and stems, stacked days
like tinctures on shelves,
sealed hush of night
in glass. I sought the ones
that made my body hurt:
burdock’s cling
and nettle’s electric sting.
Placed bowls of salt
under the bed,
Queen Anne’s Lace
against the dresser’s
watchful, silent edge.
In the winter,
even the radish knew
how to grow because
I kept it warm.
Scorpio Moon
The windows are open
again, that four am breeze
lingering in the leaves,
seeping in so mille-feuille sweet,
as I plop my thoughts
into hot water like tea.
I check the sky.
It’s Scorpio and I want
to retreat into my shell.
Someone once said I’m terrible
in a crisis. But during a storm
in the Adirondacks, when the car veered
off the side of the road,
I was calm. I remind myself
ecosystems are dynamic
and not fixed. Maybe I am a forest
that keeps on burning
because it’s good for the soil.
In this human body, I’m still
putting out fires, yet to discover
the goodness there,
that regenerative quality.
Grace
I’ll offer you grace:
not so much beautiful
language, or even
a compelling story.
Show me a path
where I am not
a protagonist. I’ll polish
that reflection, seeking
someone else within it.
I no longer wait
for a tap on the shoulder,
or summon the divine
midwife in the small hours
of morning. Give me the hum
of daily labor: not promises
or grand achievements,
but moments that insist
on presence. That I listen,
and love deeply,
both guide and witness.
The Mermaid of Moonlit Waters
She swims in moonlit waters
where the sea sings distant songs,
her tail a flash of silver and blue.
She doesn’t need a crown or jewels,
for her treasure is the hidden deep.
Her laughter dances with the waves,
as fish flicker past like living stars.
She holds no map but knows the paths
of currents that carry her dreams.
At daybreak, she reaches the surface.
Those at shore may never see her,
but the sea remembers her name.
BIO: Elanur Williams writes from Ireland. Her poetry has appeared in Eunoia Review, the Ekphrastic Review, 3Elements Literary Review, Halfway Down the Stairs, and Orchards Poetry Journal, among others.
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