It is the horse hoof which kills me --- head opened up & poetry inside & purple worms give way to ocher hides tanned polluted skin factory mercury; these words like chemical mixtures: lime green and magenta, underground sockets; the peck-eyed crows call you sister, mother, friendly-old-woman not the youth --- youth is the tightly pored plan of Jesus’ altruistic dinner & it blinds me --- if the crown had not yet prior to this --- this is the knell I cower I cackle I burn I’m something you know about which kills the little people it’s a man yes, it’s him --- yet look at how I’ve become his kin. What other reason would the children not know --- what other outcome than to not give them to you --- spirit them safely away in a bedroom all the while with the creeping about, and I, a fucking cat creeping about --- I planned less and less and never arrived then the suicide girl came through the wall and though I hated her I still missed you very much --- so here I am. Dear Father.
The Teapot Should Be Whistling Soon
You think you’ve got something on me?
I am the queen of adroitness,
Of lunacy, of the prickled switch
And paddle; I reverse La Pietà;
Jesus holds his Virgin Mother -
Ubiquitous cross and thorns;
I adorn nothing; absorb His scorn
God will mount me; pink hued, for
Naked lunch below the Yew -
I nibble, unaskew of this messy to-do
Note this, unstable prodigy:
Your poems or your children
One cannot bask in glory of both -
So I declare that I shall have the neither & the nor;
Don’t you remember Sexton and Woolf?
If I shan't have a room of my own,
Then I will become
The room and the walls all around
And they will feel my sour breath
Slit mouth harangues its metallic chant;
Rows of carp teeth
Upon their hairy necks - I clamp down
As I deliver a stake to their
1,2,3 poof! I deliver my airs,
I’m a bomb Phd, gale force
Dioxin; lethally toxic,
I dare them to breathe me in.
Rot & Cached.
Elisabeth Horan is a mom in Vermont writing poems and trying to figure out her happy place. She has work in formercactus, Moonchild Magazine, Milk + Beans, and many other wonderful journals you like. She marvels that poems invite others into her mind, a place where the light doesn’t always shine. There is a chapbook “Pensacola Girls” out with Kristin Garth and Bone & Ink Press! @ehoranpoet / ehoranpoet.com.