Hours like mothsA Chapter by Eilis.
Ritual is: 3am rising; the creak
of stairs and denial
of coffee. Ritual is: aching
for sun to disappear, catching the hours in my palms like moths and
watching them circle the old-light
of memory. Grief
is not only a condition of death. Some
times the funeral
is a ritual moving daily through
the body. The worn
coat of ritual memories slipping
off and on and
on and on like the ritual of the wound
-pocked moon -waning
© 2026 EilisAuthor's Note
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