Poetry by Elisabeth Horan & James Diaz

       Chris CC



​The Taste of Men

little do I know of aging and fragility -
it's not the twiglike bones
creaking with fortysomething,
which bother me

it's the taste of men in my
mouth from my twenties and thirties
(but not like it sounds) - the feel

of my head in a vice and a squeeze
so implied the esophagus pops out,
like a glass eye -

until I slip and drown in
a cocaine hottub;
I wake and I am naked.
The party has ended -  

some say glass tastes of nothing -
but I say it must - if it's made of sand -
grit n grains in everything I eat; I drink -
ginger ale grinds new gizzard meat

glitterati, we gettin' scissored
was my boytoy beat
and the slivers came and went
made jagged scars -
the ones I now curate

never leave the egg salad;
salt and peppered like my hair now -
tupperware like an isolation cage -
mustard & mayo; wrinkle cream... support hose

there was even fiberglass in
the Marlboro Lights -
and the taste of those is still...

ruby blood upon my mouth,
forceful sex within my throat -
and I flick back and forth this many-layered
tongue - a film of slime for every man I loved,

with soap and washcloth in hand;
a toothbrush works between the lips -
every woman I meet nowadays
learns how to clean her mouth up.




I Don't Wanna Ask, But Can You Hold Me While I Fall To Pieces

when am i not crumble dome
all things blue
gathered around you
my mask of sorrow
my lullaby scar
lay me out like night
watching the terrible wheel
spin slowly out of control

quiet edge of town
my face is so small
compared to the down swell river
and Donny says death is easy
it all depends how badly you want it

folds of your dress
it's not selfish to want to be loved
it's just naive

might i disappear
and no one notice

might i love you broken
into 

as i am

no one takes you
as you really are

let alone could be

off in the blue distance
a woman screams
and it won't end well

I'm just trying not to notice
how completely destroyed
we all are

in the end
and in the beginning.



​
Mother is a Giant Maple

I cracked tonight
Fell into black hands
Not just a crumble
Annihilation brand
I am not the calm
So little blue liquid
Rinses me - it's red
Red like my eyes
Recessed, wrinkled
Scowling at little children
Shredded cape, fettered
Heart caving

The one thing
Consistent is how
I fall apart
and that would be fine
If it hurt no one
Fall off a dock drown
Save the taxpayers
Poison myself
Tantrum jump at bridge
Who who who cares
No one gives a shit

But when I timber I crush
The limbs of smaller saplings
Underfoot, deformity as their
Twigs snap away, like a zap
Of mean light split in two
They must survive the rest
Of their lives like this.

Funny, how they hold up
The felled trunk of me
Even as they succumb
From my smothering -
From the immense weight
Crushing them.




Was It Ever Really Worth The Climb

that moment when a bird can no longer fly
is there a tiny pulse that ricochets in her feathered heart 
and does she have words for that
sweet little starling
all bruised/used up

I'd pin it 
to my skin
little blur of...
I don't know what to call it-
that part that won't fit

we are not one of those beautiful things 
they write about.

Bio: Elisabeth Horan is an imperfect creature from Vermont doing her best to make the world a little bit better with her words. She is an advocate for animals, children and those suffering alone and in pain - especially those ostracized by disability and mental illness. She has work published and forthcoming at Occulum, Former Cactus, Moonchild Magazine, Hedgehog Poetry and Ginger Collect. Her column Arsenic Hour is live at TERSE. Journal. @ehoranpoet [email protected]

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Bio: James Diaz is a writer and editor living in upstate New York. He is the author of This Someone I Call Stranger. His work has appeared most recently in Occulum, Philosophical Idiot, and Midnight Lane Boutique. He occasionally tweets @diaz_james and wrestles with his thoughts at jamesdiazsite.wordpress.com/.

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