Where hast thou been, sister? –Macbeth Since the night I was born I’ve I’ll known howling at the moon, mixed kiss yours with my own, crossed all times rhymes to together by the born beards your beard on our faces. Even when apart of hurt women’s tales never tell and call & so sisterhood snakes up us the world of men, saying good lords riddance of this to each girl pulled world from the tree like a pulpy ugly plum, maybe mouthful of sour absurd for the biter. Weird sisters pick wicked our own women, don’t you know I’ve no by the way our sunken bodies ready suck up all the light, small as a nutshell spell big as the moor, tying time in a bow, to know not beautiful for any price but what driving men mad exposing all the hidden woman swords they make of words. is.
Elizabeth Sylvia (she/her) is a writer of poems and other lists who lives with her family in Massachusetts, where she teaches high school English and coaches debate. Elizabeth’s work is upcoming or has recently appeared in Salamander, Pleiades, Soundings East, J Journal, RHINO, Main Street Rag and a bunch of other wonderful journals. She is currently working on a verse investigation of the writer Elizabeth Barstow Stoddard.