by Elisabeth Horan

 

The true me is a purple skin flaw
boiling kitchen of saws and bones
beg it beg it to reconsider

Set in stone this bitch rarely
gives in to sensible pressure.
Look at the pomegranate bruises
potato eye damages

Stewed tomatoes for an ass
mangled carrot becomes a nose –
hungry boys think they want it
starving girls love to hate it

Stuck, in middle – so full and sick
this black belly of the beastial

No idea whose
tight skin is splitting,
cinching up the belt to slice
in halves… poor-pear-mistake,

Rotting Cabbage Borscht
makes sauce for older men
mountains of white cocaine,
hotel rooms she once frequented

Eats dicks, snorts their wallets
runs farfaraway
gnaws upon the ribs of newborn children
so young & underdone

You knew her. You once knew her.
Consummate it now, horridly:
eggz n semen never die like this –

Goat carcass collector asking for
some woman; she is beyond alive
digging up tired souls
in your backyard; hidden graveyard

Under children’s swings – you want some supper
you are so hungry… for parts, for meat.

Wanting to love her goes so wrong.
She does not know
who this is
who is talking.

 

 

 

---

Elisabeth Horan is a poet/momma/flower/animal from Vermont caring for all creatures…and writing her heart out. She has books at Fly on the Wall, Twist in Time, Cephalo, Broken Spine Arts, Fahmidan, and others…. Elisabeth is proud to exist as the Founding Editor at Animal Heart Press. She has two precious sons… Breathe the air. Feel the love. Let’s be kind and cherish one another. Friends pickles horses rivers cookies sleep sex, mexican food and sunsets. Elisabeth is @ehoranpoet on Twitter and Instagram & her website is ehoranpoet.net.