The First Matriarch

H. E. Riddleton‘s life is synonymous with writing. She is the curious kind, an Alice of sorts and is in constant sought of subject. She is a current editorial staff for her college’s literary magazine: TCC South’s Script and has forthcoming fall publications in The Ibis Head Review and The Light Ekphrastic.

The First Matriarch

It is the fossil
that fades the back
handle of dust

into a curator. The moon’s
pestilence mourns the
furthest decorum

the oldest tree ever
saw. The silk sobriety
whistles as man holds first

hand. Every tone of earth
wriggling up their fingers
to catch light of it, the

slight might of it-
Willendorf’s Corpse!
Somewhere, in the far off

root, a new cry crowns
the silence. The mother’s
gasps do not last.

The sun birds sink
the after-birth.

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