sylvia pm elisa syl bloo via via sy lisa drip drip eth via syl lick lick lick cat sylv eli creeping cat go go moon ate syl phase via ate chil elisa ate dren cons visa umed eliva kill bet ed them death is sylv is elis is not real children are not sil stove eli not a stove meds not dad child bebe en eat moth aba ers whole sylvia yours elisabeth did pmdd too.
Haha child - This is all you’ve got?
My nights are filled with sunken ships
Filled with fetuses born of this witch
Little spines, crooked - broken
Fingers, toes, only count to seven, and curled
Hideous; veins outside of transparent skin
A heart beats black; the lungs puff -
Sooted. My daddy takes me from behind
Sings Edelweiss and Baby Mine - lines
A gun up between my eyes - Doktor Mengele
Fingers the trigger.
But I don’t die. Not even close ---
Rather I sing to showers
Full of ghosts
Women with rashes and public lice; men
Swinging low, ashamed, pissing scars of sacred
Ness; trains of cows, full of meat to market
Whoosh by in a clickity-clack, the waving faces
Of Weisel & Niemöller & Milosz -
Inside, Carcasses. Dear
God - racks over racks of
Children --- my mind inside out
Ted ted Ted ted. Dead.
Gone. Ripped front to back; dick
To head. Me. Blue nighty.
Go for it Sylvia; go ahead and be
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.