Robin's Egg Blue Soft bird loves night light gowns her body and walks the last cerulean mile flies in her mind ---a misery broken wing trails Along like ramparts fizzling Hitler's last stand. What a bunker. What a braun. What a Petty woman's war. Or stronghold---Had she had a birdie To release---did she wish for a pop-out screen or a Female Parliament to impeach; did she know what I know that Her daddy was her lover; did she know of the fetus which doth smother a new mother? Daughter turns - burns. Small broken bird falls to asphalt out jail window So softly as the morning eats children--- Troubled Water like a bridge below me out into the world strident arch for once your back - not mine deep into the soul/self and the river rages under skin hide in the vivid moon - veins like sticks - caught - snagged on milk river and they wonder why fish give in to a hook and lure lines sinkers my lip swollen - sags - so many punctures so many timeless reeled in and in in streams of black and crimson strokes i am not dead but i am not swimming ECT or You Loving ME - Vol 2 Shock treatment is for me bridge programs so, so, easy --- the walk down the hall the IV; the vomiting; the need of a driver at 2 pm and some deeply tinted Jackie O glasses the other option --- your trenchcoat, I could get into it's muster; I could swear myself over to you - Chief, and you could throw the sink out of the window - rip its pipes up from the linoleum --- and i could not chew the gum and i could not let them cut me open ---near or on the location of my deformity: at the temple & icould not let them win &icould not let them win like...like they did before when i was young. When I was Nicholson. What's Eating Gilbert Grape's Mom Heartbroken; shattered plates aren't coming together; swelling makes muscle plump on bone pooling hematoma prickly blue bruising like a comical formula For damaged tissue, neurologic palsy, and bloody mess elevators arrange the bandage as a diaper to hold the fester a little longer In this dillapate house caving down upon my head, my body, throbbing with death - no chair helps me tagalong green lawn, green lawn, before the oak commences burning, plays dead Smells smoke, and crackle fawn succumbs to the obese splinter - white wash monster consumated her pyre comes together - over; over Ropes Have No Idea Their Impact I went away, Cycled and spiraled and all that shit - & i went to the place where you know about the dirt floor & I saw you bent over scratching at your eyes once before - & I laid there a virgin to the Ward's fuckin' power & there was boy dangling in the corner & there was you and me - holding out one E.T. finger touching each other as if it would shock the little white pills right out of our mouths & I wanted to kiss you Some might think that is weird deranged inappropriate - & who cares - no one is watching me smoke all these cigarettes dreaming of the time you let me give you a foot rub with my cocoa butter lotion. I was a dying lamb --- & So, yeah, I went away again I'm trying to get back to you I know you're still in the membranes waiting and watching in the brain cogs & the meds don't regurgitate the brownie doesn't react to the laxative - the demons giggle - so excruciating in my spine - they want to suck me - marrow & saliva & the boy still dangling in the corner I cut him down ---over and over I swaddle and kiss --- over and over give him a foot rub with cocoa butter & I make him mine---each day. Because I never seem to get better. Wolfpack Contributor Bio: Elisabeth Horan
Take it slowly now, friend –
Feel the finger imprints
Be the shoulder, let
Old woman feathers
Alight on its middle aged
Muscle, be the interim
Driver, ambulatory cane and
Walker, endless appointment
Driver, be the ear, open
For business, for recording
The oral art of the redwood
Pulp, decoding infinite loss
Of children, unimaginable to
The uninitiated. She is
Initiated on everything,
Us, just a little bit
Here and there –
We are not frivolous
By nature. Our troubles
Like our debts
To each other
Mired, selfishly, and
Less like ourselves
Caught up in the trivial
The bad dreams the
Cannot be compared to
Or even the fifties,
We must do the work
That kind of strength
May we learn to survive
From it –
May it hold our heart
I love you dead.
Flower in your Mouth.
I love you cut in half…
It is a suit of fine ends.
I see it on, half fits yours/mine.
The limp skin, I place your benevolence,
perform our will, execute your debtors,
sing Liturgical misery. I reap
The widow cane,
sew mittens, tame precepts, slay
Kingdoms of having laid.
I love you dead.
your Greyish-white head
Every single night
That’s where the pain comes in
Like a second skeleton – Fiona Apple
My brain is a place of deep concern to me. My brain is a place of butterflies and octopi. You haven’t seen a place such as this and I am so happy for you. You tell me to smile and chock it all up to my negative attitude – that when I text you to say I feel sick, that I am afraid of the coathanger snagging the uterus and bleeding me out, of random murder, of sexual demons, of all the roadkill – you say I think too much. You say maybe we shouldn’t be friends… because when I am this negative, it is upsetting to you.
I’m sorry for this.
I’m sorry I cannot fix my slippery gray cell patina – the smile/slime of a barbiedoll on acid; the cool way I snort up the powder of suicide; the way I drink myself to oblivion, decimate my skeleton on the cliff of hopelessness — I fall short. When it comes to being in the world like a good girl — I am terrible at it — bc I am hurt/hurting in my brain, and then, you say, I’m a lot to handle, and you need some time/space away. From me.
I’m sorry for this.
I don’t think I can be normal for you. It’s agony to feel the driveway gravel puncturing my knees as I wait for things to get better — as I beg God to turn me around, let him spank me red/raw, or kiss the toes of his son; (you know I would) — go outside and let the cold burn me – as if it could pasteurize the fetid illness — freeze the chlamydia, the rot, the yellowed liver, brain disease… I imagine you chewing on my sinews… a rabid squirrel; hoarding all the acorns, clogging my limbic system; gnawing the naughty synapse gleaned — all just to make me behave better. I don’t think you have the energy…
I want to be the chickadee who freezes to death on the shimmering pine branch — falls from her perch without ever knowing of death, without ever feeling a damn thing.
And I am so sorry for this.
Make your move – a sonnet
Love, I to love the way your finger-
Nails ran, like tracks, over my skin – each time
I came, you went farther, deeper, the wounds
Characterize my flesh—a punch to the
Gut—I now know, this is not really love;
I should not-have to fear-your tongue-your touch
You demote me—in your head-just a friend—
I despise friends; I reap nothing; my shriveling
Face-blue; blackened torso, the red velvet
Scars-crimson fork tines – evidence for
Now, for the only gift you ever gave me –
I open a vein. I watch. How the azure
Drip flashes to fire when it hits air—
As it drips like loss—brave testimony. O’er
Bad bad girl
Watch me move like a black swan in the night
Sticking out my neck for whoever will wring it right
Ugly duckling, shrinking teen, lapping the piano
Act as if you care — but no one really knows
What I do to myself-how I eat my own brains
How I circle the wagons; how I burn up in flames
I got no one to make me—make me safer than before
I thought you loved me, but you also think I’m a whore
I’m only a girl with a body—lithe bait of neck to choke
Beat me down—tie me up in the hall—fingers and rope
What else are they good for??? Ripping out my hair
Picking at my eyelids—look at me dying in here—
And I swear, I’m guilty—I don’t love myself—I don’t tell
Anyone; I am only beautiful in the darkness of hell.
I am feeling powerful
The drip of honey
Smeared across my lips
Would share it with you
But you are way too complex
To enjoy this —
Nah, I’m gonna burn slow
Be the ache and heat alone
One candle, dripping —
A splatter burn on the breast, thigh
Or waist; all I need to cool
Is water surging outward…
Can you feel the chasm deepening?
My lower back alive with buzzing,
Arching puffs of
Smoke and goddamn, the shock waves —
The ocean is rising, she is tidal.
When I stop to breathe, to take in
The smell of sweet rosebuds,
Lime chemistry, fish filled marina —
Gonna fill my
Nose, bury it in deep. Gonna
Lick my lips
And close my eyes…
Lay back into
The arms of a woman — cuz I am feeling
So fucking powerful, my love… tonight.
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)