• “Life // slip // stream” by Elisabeth Horan

    It’s nothing / hangs / like toile / white gauze / surgery / comes and goes / lab coats I never wore / monkeys & rabbits / guilty / I am always / I hate the inaction / I hate the mascara / raccoons flood my airways / knowing what I don’t or won’t do…

  • “Not on my lips anymore” by Elisabeth Horan

    Your sexual preference is the strand of spider web across my eyes this morning, Annoyed, I swipe it away; it is perfect and persistent; it laughs at my effort, yet doesn’t let go. My wanting you is for what – I don’t know – as if new clothes would make me Somehow happier – more…

  • Yum Yum Time by Elisabeth Horan

    Hello shattered baby. Lie down – and come, I want to be free with you – I want to be something new for you – to be your new pet. I’m so fun: you drinking / me drinking fun. I want our party to be the kind they love – they covet our things, our…

  • Arsenic Hour: my middle aged women troubles by Elisabeth Horan

    This is the debut of Elisabeth Horan’s column, Arsenic Hour. Here is its namesake poem.     Here comes a bad one. Pearled teeth, gnarled hands, knife fingers, bomb breasts, snake limbs, tortoise pelvis, wolf anus, pronghorn genitals. Here comes the malfeasance. Ivory ban, fingernail grind, tusked cheeks, flat bill palette, five toes times five…

  • We who are lost; Mmm, Nope; Neurotic Lullaby by Elisabeth Horan

    Three poems by contributor Elisabeth Horan   We who are lost Find each other in warehouses Too late sometimes, it’s in graveyards. Always emaciated, dumpster diving for attention   Overweight on alcohol anorexic acceptance rates like High school anxiety shave the head try on personalities   We who find each other and save some last…

  • And I Loved Them by Elisabeth Horan

    A poem by contributor Elisabeth Horan.     Is it my turn to use them? I asked, in doe-eyed chin up hopefulness –   Not yet, replied father-fuhrer. Maybe tomorrow.   I never really got a chance to play with them – they were under lock and key behind the rum, above the crackers  …

José Guadalupe Posada