broken brain out
double
trouble
what is it like
to be so wonderful
my dirt track
scum puddle
flea ridden
rip scab
eat muscle
drink blood
synapse broke
swing rope
elation not due
neither heaven sent
after prayer and kneel
on confetti rice
when trees fall
in slick dark night
when turkeys lay
red eggs and even the day
feels of smite
hold advice;
hold waist - arms,
teeth and tight.
Elisabeth Horan is an imperfect creature from Vermont advocating for animals, children and those suffering alone and in pain - especially those ostracized by disability and mental illness. Her collaborative nature and feminism chapbook “On This Path We Travel”, is published at Moonchild Magazine. Her column Arsenic Hour is live at TERSE. Journal. @ehoranpoet ejfhoran.weebly.com