Something about the tracks…
the tracks…
We reunite – end up with this outcome
scarred faces and arms —
A head against the metal like a penny
severed limb – (she will grow another one)
But the head, and the blaring; the blaring of the horn —
always late April; always amid the howl
of pain, of storm. When does the quiet come…
When does the child remember the coin and
Meander back. To see the metal in a new way.
To see the neck re-attached at the seams —
When does the head stop rolling
down the river bank —
Into the water —
with a plunk
Suicide Attempt #___
I mourn the wounded Aurora in your
eyes, who slit the grey blue waves at dawn –
The blade which opened wrists anew,
was once a friend, then gone.
Birds know the brutal weight of air –
we fight it, not understanding
How to float as cadavers, nor how
to dive into abysmal depths without
Breaking our necks on rocks
we know avarice, we know want.
Vice to us is accumulated
nothing more than heroin and cigarettes.
Muscle and bone – the coral and the abalone –
so patient with the eons
Not responding sooner to those who would
desecrate their beds
Pearled Pacific mornings turn to
chalk, ground up silicates and her
Fresh flesh, crab and krill
your inner wrist split
Upon the atoll,
bleeding clouded humanity
Into a placid sea awash in
devastating beauty.
Bio: Elisabeth Horan is a poet, mother, and small press publisher living in the wilds of Vermont. She is the author of numerous poetry chapbooks and collections, and the Editor-In-Chief of Animal Heart Press. Elisabeth is passionate about discovering new voices and mentoring emerging poets. She is also a fierce advocate for those impacted by mental illness. (from her website ehoranpoet.net)
Fevers of the Mind 