Blanket Sea

Magazine & Press

Page 25 of 29

Poetry by Elisabeth Horan

The Cruelty of Winter Has Only Just Begun

The little bird came out
in darkness:
t’was my heart and
so disoriented;
and the seed was
not the right
seed, but instead of
dying off
from the frigid cold –

it turned back,
familiar valve found,
hence – alit:
three-toed and tucked,
a hinged
and hungered beak under
hollow-boned
shoulder blade – black and white speckled
wing feathers;
her sanguine queen
comforters:
necessary warmth
to go it once more
in the deepness:
it was in my head
and it was dying
in the end – but not
from the frigid cold.

 

Pain Pilgrim

Bless you Pilgrim
for I know where you
travel to

The hurt will be unraveling
like string, like yarn;
acorns will fall, conspicuous &

Rude. Awakening ancient
anger like a magma floor
boils

A Vulcan you’ve been.

A Vulcan: you blow your top.
but it’s at yourself, most often,
at whom you blow your top –

Not the cat who tangled the yarn
not the neighbor
who spared the oak –

Not the iron ore of earth
in all her bitchiness
and unpredictable nature

Like the heavens
suffer from global frustration

They are as sweaty
as worn out, as tired of bad news –
(children die every day…)

As you are.
That is why you walk the road, young
Pilgrim. For –

Who else, if not yourself,
shall ravel up this
tangled skein of yarn –

 

 

Elisabeth Horan is a poet and mother living in Vermont who has struggled with major depression and anxiety most of her adult life. Most recently, she survived severe postpartum depression which, after the birth of her second son, almost destroyed her. She hopes her poetry might let others, who may be suffering in silence, know that they are not alone. Please hang on Pain Pilgrim, there is hope. @ehoranpoetejfhoran@weebly.com

SaveSave

SaveSave

“Don’t Cry for Me, Nevada” by Andrea Lambert

I wake in the Queen Anne four poster bed. Bed of our madness. My Schizophrenic grandfather and abused grandmother slept here. Grandpa dug out a basement for a relative with only a shovel for the money to buy this bedroom set. A very long time ago.

This bed my domestic partner committed suicide on. I found her pants-less corpse next to me. The next morning. With no warning. All my empty pill bottles scattered around her head. Between epigenetic trauma, genetic mental illness, and real life hard knocks, no wonder my PTSD is dialed up to 666. Prazosin helps. So does therapy.

I sleep my antipsychotic Saphris-induced twenty-hour sleeps. On this bed. At irregular intervals. Unless I crash out on the green velvet couch. With nap intentions. Often a day or night passes.

Time loses meaning when you’ve been on SSDI for ten years. Deemed Totally and Permanently Disabled. Checked permanently out of society. I am no longer a real person. Powerful writers I respect tell me they have “real problems,” and I don’t. I’m not a real person. Am I imaginary? Perhaps. Ephemeral as a ghost to the real world.

Hidden away in my House of the Rising Sun I am real. My heart beats. Blood flows. I sleep. Breathe. Wake. Eat. Shit. I am still alive. My problems are all in my head. But they are painfully, hair-raisingly real.

I know no one can see my Schizophrenia. Or hear the voice of the imaginary friend part of my brain who whispers to me. Or the ancestral ghosts who talk to me inside my mind. See the iridescent mandalas that appear of the white walls and ceiling.

I know no one can see my Bipolar Disorder. Only the crystal dish in my pink bathroom heaped with Sephora palettes. The glittery paintings lining my walls from insomniac manic painting nights. The huge stash of pill bottles behind that mirrored medicine cabinet. Vanity bulbs light a blue plastic pillbox I fill twice weekly.

No one can see my anxiety. Only my face screwing up in pain when I go into a grocery store. Showing my ID at CVS Pharmacy every month. To get my benzodiazepines. So I can still go outside every once in a while. Not have seizures.

No one can see my PTSD. Only the strict avoidance of the outside world and non-familial relationships. The sleepless nights of traumasomnia. Empty eighths of cannabis, my best medicine.

Empty pill bottles gradually, slowly accrue. I used to save this detritus of my pain for art. Like alchemy. Then the cockroaches came. Now I just throw pill bottles away when they’re empty.

The irregular fits and starts of my amateur hobbyist creativity will never be good enough to be a job. Because artist is not a job that exists in this capitalist society. I only hang onto what stability I have thanks to my benevolent family and Social Security charity. All of which I am endlessly thankful for. Grovelingly.

I am painfully aware that I am a parasite. Many people think disabled people should just all die. Instead of sucking leech-like off of the system to survive. I don’t want to die. My domestic partner committed suicide over her mental illness. All of my grandparents are dead of old age. I want to live a long life until my wife comes for me in a black veil and takes me away to the other side. To haunt this house, perhaps.

I pray to be permitted to live. Free-range. Outside of an institution. I protectively recluse out, knowing this world isn’t safe for people like me.

“Cry me a river.” “Don’t you know how many people have it worse?” Of course I know all of that. I’ve been around the block and under the train tracks. I thought I would die there. I’m paralyzed to do anything about massive societal structural inequalities because I’m dealing with all the above mentioned shit already.

Don’t cry for me, Argentina.  Don’t cry for me, Hollywood. Don’t cry for me, Nevada. All I ask is your eyes. For a time. Just read my voice on this screen. Feel my pain for a moment. Feel lucky you aren’t me. Feel better about your own life.

Isn’t that my place? As a Disabled woman? Inspiration or schaudenfreude? I know my place.

 

 

Andrea Lambert wrote Jet Set Desolate, Lorazepam & the Valley of Skin: Extrapolations on Los Angeles, and the chapbook, G(u)ilt. Her chapbook, Lexapro Diary, was recently released from Moonchaps. Her food essay series, “Dining with a Cursed Bloodline,” appears monthly in Entropy. Writing in Luna Luna, OCCULUM, Grimoire, and elsewhere. Anthologies: Golden State 2017, Haunting Muses, Writing the Walls Down, The L.A. Telephone Book and elsewhere. CalArts MFA. Website: andreaklambert.com. Twitter: @AndreaLamber.

SaveSave

SaveSave

SaveSave

SaveSave

SaveSave

“Doctor Dream, 1720” by Sarah Lilius

I am weepy.
18th century Marseilles, we aren’t French
and we dodge the Plague.

I am trapped in the wine cellar,
you laugh at a game
where people fall onto patches of grass.

Our hair, luxurious,
full of powder,
slowly comes undone.

Words like loins, feline,
and sunshine are passed around,
it is eagerness fulfilled.

Stone creeps around us, hard snakes
between thighs and brains.
You’re a drug I can’t swallow.

The gardens are full of young boys
needing attention, girls carry
pitchers of water to the decrepit foliage.

I just want love, my heavy dress
lifts in séance and waits for moonlight,
sin on my tongue sharp as red wine.

The sky heats, never cooling.
We muse on things not invented yet,
we wait for small animals to bite our ankles.

I wake to pill dust under my
bitten fingernails,
hard pills in my unruly hair.

 

Sarah Lilius is the author of four chapbooks including GIRL (dancing girl press, 2017), and Thirsty Bones (Blood Pudding Press, 2017). Some of her publication credits include the Denver Quarterly, Court Green, BlazeVOX, Bluestem, Tinderbox, Hermeneutic Chaos, Stirring, Luna Luna Magazine, Entropy, and Flapperhouse. She lives in Arlington, VA, with her husband and two sons. Her website is sarahlilius.com.

SaveSave

« Older posts Newer posts »

© 2025 Blanket Sea

Theme by Anders NorenUp ↑