two poems by Elisabeth Horan
Epitaph for some. Like me
What do I do
When the sun is gone.
The light I know
Slips away
In my head things are dark
Untenable
But I am breathing it seems
Parenting, the children.
They are alive.
Good job for today.
Did not run away.
Did not hit anyone, nor ruined a life
Well,
Remains to be seen; when they reach
21, 32, 43
Like me, will they tell their psychiatrist
How difficult it was
How sick their mother was
And how they cannot have normal
Relationships with men. Or women.
It seems I won’t know this
Because by the time they are grown men
I will be dead.
What do I do
When they come in the evening, to
Imagine
My bones in the ground.
How will I say I am sorry?
For the pain and fucked up life
I provided for them
I want to slide into a cool vernal pool
Plastic bag taped around my neck
The way it sucks in and out
Last breaths.
The frog eggs comforting me. The
Baby eats, orange, no bigger than a
Pinkie, eating of me
Suckling me.
My death will not be mercifully brief
Such as this.
I want to shake their little shoulders
Beg them to see
I kept them alive
Whilst my brain eaten alive
By the very worms I saved.
Isn’t that enough
for today?
I cannot do this without you
I stayed up
late last night
thinking that I
might have lost you -
about what
that would mean
and what would I do
if indeed I had lost you -
when I use the
term, lost you
I am speaking of the
unspeakable -
not lost you like a
lover loses a woman
not lost you like a
retriever loses a ball
or a rookie loses a game
or I lose these tears
as I write this -
I was thinking
about, losing you -
the way a heart
is deflated of blood and
never pumps again
the way a bomb
detonates a building and
kills the ones inside
the way people forget
that they are valuable
and instead
shoot a needle into their vein,
giving up on everything -
and the way
I said, I hate myself, every morning,
’till I met you.
The consequences
are mystifying and gargantuan and terrifying.
How would I know which poem to read, and
how would I ever get through it?
The other people would feel so badly
for me, trying
to endure that blasted eulogy,
to throw the ashes
into, not against the wind
trying to keep my legs locked;
to not vomit on the casket.
I could choose any one poem
any one of them we have written -
or the terms, pre-selected to describe
your way of being, your personality -
(brown-eyed honey friend, crimson and clover,
windshisperer, word stroker, et al.)
But those are just in my opinion,
I’ve never really met you.
Funny, my work is already done,
applicable to the martyring of you -
But know, I would take all the selfish
preselected words
back if it meant
I could keep you for just one more day -
I never want to know
how real any of this is;
how it could actually be, truth -
if you
decided the pain
was too great
if you decided
the world might be better off -
or if you missed
Andrew too much - suddenly.
You see? how narrow
my perspective is -
I would never make it
as - a poet widow - this
broken brain out of gas
and about, at readings,
at AWP signings
of our greatest hits -
our first chapbook!
my heart on a picket,
for the world to witness -
I cannot do,
this life without you.
I cannot have lost you -
please, not yet.
Tell me, tell me, that
this isn’t over yet.
april 21st, 2020
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. Follow her @ehoranpoet & ehoranpoet.com