poetry by Elisabeth Horan
Us ladies of the sonnet - it’s sex, the thing we’re best at: attend a surfboard lesson. Ah, male apprentice, tow momma on board with your rope. Nevermind, just lather me up with soap, I'm a dope on your rope; drag me under testosterone waves, no need to breathe inside the cylindrical barrel; translucent little shotgun death. Cougar trapped - my desire to devour your shorts; do things young men haven't learned yet - like eddy whirl and suck up, hold down trick then eat the good rush. Yes? I'm going down deep into the place you need me and dream of coalescing starfish, just let go - grab onto something wet, my sides, my breasts, my ass: luscious sea grass. Now, comes the clam grip. A shining pearl: open-eyed voyeur; no need to hide, for wanting inside - just crush it.
Hella Pussy on Pussy
Men don’t know what they are missing when I take a urine application stick from the drawer, fill it out and sit on the toilet and bleed. I wasn’t hired for a baby - too old, they said, ushered me far away to the place little old barren bitches go to get a chihuahua or terrier dog for company. To kill off their vagina. Dogs sniff my crotch like they know something - they know I’m still fertile, I don’t belong in the air-conditioning of Dog Valley; I want to go to the sweaty birthing farm and have a little head pop out of me, slippery, mid-orgasmic & writhing. Surrounded by ten-twenty pregnant, lactating, horny, menstruating women with their fingers all rubbing my perineum. The only change we need women, is to make the Dog Valley Condominiums full of olive oil orgies, menopause parties, and hella pussy on pussy. Men don’t know what they are missing -
Elisabeth Horan is a poet and mother from Vermont. She writes to let others know they are not alone in their struggles with mental illness and disability. She has work at Milk + Beans, The Mad River, formercactus, Feminine Collective and other wonderful places you enjoy. @ehoranpoet & ehoranpoet.com