Will you lay down with me today – become my body’s compression – push down so hard on my bones it re-aligns the cricks in my once-malleable spine. I was a gymnast; I was a crook; I was little red riding hood mounted astride the biggest, baddest Woolf – I was karaoke to Cake and Gwen – flower power, ganja store and MGD grace; so wasted, yet functioning – making out to some frantic pace – with lowlifes, throw-outs, and on-the-fence-gays – no shame did I hide – climbed aboard cocaine piles, twenty-somethings… caterpillar mustache rides.
Why not lay down with me here – this platform of motherhood I am defiling; the 42, no 43-year-old age lines – curve as do my thighs into tighter places; unfinished theses; scientific theory says that the chicken begets the egg – yet I beget both the ova and the underdeveloped hatchlings – I beget your orgasm, as well as the frightening end which stalks us; unenlightened as almost all endings – all unravelings…
God isn’t available today. And my belly goes so untouched –
Elisabeth Horan is an imperfect creature from Vermont advocating for animals, children and those suffering alone and in pain – especially those ostracized by disability and mental illness. She has work up at Moonchild Magazine, TERSE. Journal, Blanket Sea, Former Cactus, Burning House and Milk & Beans. Her chapbook “Pensacola Girls”, written in collaboration with Kristin Garth, is forthcoming at Bone & Ink Press. Follow her @ehoranpoet & tumblr.com/blog/ehoranpoet