By Elisabeth Horan
Wind is like you
it touches me almost - as
The day faints away,
the smell
Of death persistent
in my nose
Wipe the chemical bath
across her brow
Crunchy like teeth
floating lose o’er
the tongue, deflated:
a pickle, Miraculously
Young, in the brine of life -
Of the sea— washing away
this opulent necropsy
One, two, three,
reach in the bowl;
Be plucky with the swirl-
Think milk, not grapes,
Taste the curd - not the tannin
Grab it. Get it. Then
send it on
The wind—let me feel
your fingers upon
My guilty—
third degree skin.
Elisabeth Horan is from Vermont, advocating for animals, children and those suffering alone and in pain - especially those ostracised by disability and mental illness. She is Editor in Chief at Animal Heart Press, and Co-Editor at Ice Floe Press. She has several chaps and collections out this year including Bad Mommy / Stay Mommy at Fly on the Wall Press, Odd list Odd house Odd me at Twist It Press, Was It R*pe, from Rhythm and Bones Press, and Just to the Right of the Stove, with Hedgehog Poetry Press. She is a poetry mentor and proud momma to Peter and Thomas.
Follow her @ehoranpoet & ehoranpoet.com
Elisabeth’s new poetry collection will be released by us here at Cephalopress in September. Stay tuned for more of her work and updates on the upcoming publication.
