The Pledge

Elisabeth Horan

The woman imperfect

Defective & so alive 

Stares back vacant


The snake in his

peek-a-boo hole

Four cornered containment

An open fly, a tangy pisshole

Hissing things fanged things

Child torturers the lot of us

I think I was a good girl

But then again pinched 

The Babysitter's toddler 

Till his fat wail

Stuck the silence 

Ran my name

Across the wall 

In pig's blood

Young lady, 

did you do this

No, I answered

But, I did indeed

And hung loogies over

Small faced siblings

Cackling pie of white

Crap in their preteen sky

Latchkey kids

No folks at home

The moon, with

Her snickering bone

Laughing laughing cobra

Hooded bitch

Wrings the garish nipples

Knowing that happiness 


And ends at home.

She's seen this before

The woman's undead

Dragging behind

Her beheaded neck

Motherhood March

Times infinity

So guilty, she goes to ground, 


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 and

 © 2020 þ (Thorn) Literary Magazine                                                                        

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