By Elisabeth Horan

*original artwork by author’s friend, Amy Alexander

I’m No Louise G.

No calm way
Head — coming apart
Heart — falling down
Not a flower in the yard
One quiet time
I said — I’ll recover
One lucid moment
I said — I’ll devour you
The disease
Laughed ​hahahaha
That’s really stupid
To think you could eat me -
So what — so, go on with it then
No flower, or smell
No, this one… no, that one
It gets hard to sort
Mockery from sex
Jokes from death
Orange pop from limeade
But I must — says someone;
Someone who cares enough
To open their mouths
And let pointless words
Fall out. Fall out is — result
Of brain disease.
No choosing
Did I of this shit.
No calm way to say:
I’m dying — and my
Fucked up head
Is killing it.

It’s My Mind Which Does This

Is it my fault to be so
Defective, unwilling keeper
Of the key to a
skull so
Sickened, like a bloated sponge
Riddled in bacteria, no vaccine
No hieroglyphs, I pretend
the disease
Is a friend, I tell it, you may go on
Holiday, depart with your tumor
Friends and all your
tricks and gags,
Slung low in overtly black
Plastic bags, rock
Laden, ready for the
Is it my fault she won’t go??? Stubborn
Matron tows the line, bakes better
Biscuits, corresponds more frequently
than I
Makes young doctors angry, gets
Under their skin, but strangely
They lust for her and covet her
I cannot rid of something so heinous
She walks within my legs, piggybacks
My brain, whispers
bad mother —
Pathetic failure
You are ruining them daily,
You know
best to go
Best to go,
best to leave them alone
Is it my fault this whine, this
Off-key music in
my mind?

Elisabeth Horan is a mom in Vermont writing poems and trying to figure out her happy place. She has work in formercactus, Moonchild Magazine, Milk + Beans, and many other wonderful journals you like. She marvels that poems invite others into her mind, a place where the light doesn’t always shine. There is a chapbook “Pensacola Girls” happening for her in September with Kristin Garth and Bone & Ink Press! @ehoranpoet /