Please enjoy the full text of Danielle's prose poem, 'relinquish':


it is five minutes or less since I was you, pushing away from land in my small craft, so sure of the way, the water-way, not knowing what I took from my mother who stood on the shore, less aware still of her mother – my grandmother – in the house on the hill, though in memories I now make up, she watched from the window as I went

we were each of us born – grandmother, mother, me, you – with eggs inside us, the caviar pocketsful of mise-en-abyme, and now I watch you go, standing here on the bank as my womb turns to dust, I want to call out about the rapids and the rocks, the swerve to the left, the waterfall that leaves you gasping (if you’re lucky), but though you are only a few feet out, it’s already too late and you cannot hear me but even if you could I would stay silent, not wanting to take from you that smile, sure and ready, not after I have gone to all this trouble to peel it off my own dry lips and smooth it over yours so red and ripe

though I watch you go, my eyes are drawn, too, to the skin of my hands as it crinkles to crepe, and the curls of my hair crimping to grey, all of which I have seen but not believed until now, and the tears I shed are my mother’s, those I thought to be all for my sake, which in truth were half for the sorrow, now mine, as you drown the last of my youth in your wake

I turn to the house on the hill

Find out more about Hecate journal here.