The lonely girls eats a cookie alone. Crumbs matter not at all for no one shall punish her. There is no priest here and certainly no sanctuary for playing in. He left to be an engineer of hierarchies. The vortex so splaying – a spiral appears in front of her and laughs at her bangs. It snaps and cracks, recedes, unknown origin. Rude little bully, not unlike an Annica or Molly.
Hear Mother; hear Nurse call – look, it’s another day and another day means new ghost game. Good ghost today; bad was at podium yesterday, so good arcs over today. Good ghost means cookies and bric brac, crafts and paper mache – tarts and berries and me oh my!
Bad ghost, well, better not to relay. But black and rest and closet and payment and birds wings rats, more later; much more closet later.
The lonely girl goes to the bathroom. Heats up wall and burns it to the ground. Eyes are this thing… This is of course, the reason for lonely. Tried once, made obituaries; teenage sleep-over = Carrie prom type of peak death count.
For throat of volcano exposed when flash floods washed the gulch away loves little cupid mouthed dolls. In the western sky they fly and fade into cerulean brokebacks and cry glaciers away. So we plan to take thrice the daily gift of witch visit; to bleed the artery, to restore the back room for experimentation.
Hark Mother, Hark Nurse call. It’s lunch-time this day. She goes to the bathroom- the bowl is filled with redness. Not lava. Blood is funny how it stains things which were once white and virginal – but who is it for drinking? Who shall be the receiving?
Twasn’t Father nor a blue-eyed Jesus. Perhaps the Parson’s flooded throat could no longer support the damned hymenal experiment. Perhaps that was the missionary leaving — red-orbed eyeballed turning turning over to warlock —
By and bye the day goes along and she wishes to know an outcome. Homework aside it’s the experimentation which interests her mind. How will the pairings go. Hims and hers. Penises she got to see turned to soup in the mix of chemicals the witch leaves for her learning… So interesting. Vagina only for the lava bestowed as gift upon she.
Hello Mother. Hello Nurse! Well, dinner I guess, so she goes to the bathroom and it’s nothing left but white space all around. Imagine what tomorrow will bring – the ghost, bad one, mother, nurse call; filled with white gauze the parsonage playground. Some sanctuary visiting hours at 3am and sixes.
She shan’t take it back – a gift of vermillion makes its presence felt the whole world ‘round. Marvelously padded. From the inside of a shotgun welt to the back of your tongue. It’s black and red it’s burning you tooth, root and skin. This is not what anyone knows—
This is not your type of alone.
Elisabeth Horan is a mom and poet from Vermont. Her work has been published in various places, including Mohave He(art), Cease Cows, Writer’s Resist and Barren Magazine. Please connect with her @ehoranpoet and ehoranpoet.com.