Rituals of Arrival: Ceremony of Water
By: Odessa Betancourt
Mid‑breath.
Mid-quake.
Tears rise unbidden, defiant.
The body unravels by its own decree.
I am called home
by a force without a name.
The water waits.
Salt flowers on the rim,
a ritual prepared
long before I arrived.
Clothes off.
Steam blooming.
I lower in.
Liquid solace coils my curves.
An eruption, raw, guttural, untamed.
Hands grip the edge,
white‑knuckled faith.
No lifeline-
only shadows as a tether
between surrender and survival.
Truth spills-
hot salt, raw sound.
And when the crying stills,
water holds me
like light returning to itself.
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