This is the hole. I go thereOn Sundays. I go there after dinnersBefore school --- mid work dayAfter lunch with the boss MondaysThe hole has Hangover coalTo paint my face to smudgeIn the acne, rosacea, colloscum" "Alcoholic Betty, we know the story. She died. Or did she? Through the "hours of penance" that is alcoholism and its attendant chaos-math and aftermaths, recurrent false dawns and falsetto damnations, Elisabeth Horan forges a descent/ascension pendulum of fire poems that are not "a map to martyrdom" - but a call to "go nuclear - Repose. Repose." Alcoholic Betty, we know the story. She died. She died so she could live." - Miggy Angel, Poet, Author and Performer "Horan pulls no punches with this incredibly personal, raw, apologetic exposé. This is writing from the very base of the gut, which begins with the most difficult of confessions, and ends with a reformed character "standing unafraid." A very visceral, at times moving read, where the reader shares the journey of an addict fighting their instincts and reaching for something more." - Paul Robert Mullen, Poet