Poetry: Holly Day

Holly Day’s poetry has recently appeared in Analog SF, Cardinal Sins, and New Plains Review, and her published books include Music Theory for Dummies and Music Composition for Dummies. She currently teaches classes at The Loft Literary Center in Minnesota, Hugo House in Washington, and The Muse Writers Center in Virginia.

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The Orphan

my mother brought home a sweet 

little baby sparrow

so

small and helpless 

I knew I could take care of it

it had most of its feathers 

it ate well 

it seemed healthy but the day before I 

was going to take it 

to the park to set it free 

I forgot to turn up the heater 

in its cage for the night and

the little bird froze to death 

while I was sitting downstairs in 

the living room drinking 

cranberry juice 

and vodka, 

watching some stupid TV 

program I 

DIDN’T EVEN LIKE! and

the next morning when I 

went to check 

my little 

friend I found 

him curled up in a huddle 

in the corner of his 

cage 

eyes still open.

***

Formless

my daughter lies in her crib screaming

and screaming and screaming and I wonder

if it’s me she hates so much or if she’s

just angry at the whole world in general

some formless, aimless rage and I

say to her, because I can, and she

doesn’t understand a word I’m saying

what will you say when it’s me in the crib

in a coffin, lying back, eyes closed

sewn shut will you suck angrily at your

cigarette and call me a fucking bitch

say you’re glad that I’m dead that I

was a horrible woman or will you

cry silent reminisce pat my folded dead

dry hands miss me?

***

The Rescue

my father’s hands parting

the water, trying to see

past leaves, dead fish, floating branches

diving down and finding

nothing

every time the wind blows the curtains in

every shadow that doesn’t belong

where is she

thirty years later and I’m still

waiting for her ghost

***

The New Farm

we plant the apple trees in long, straight rows, twist

the thin, soft limbs into gang symbols, secret signs

chuckle amongst ourselves at the thought of a someday forest of giant hands

flash-frozen in “East Side!” “Longhorns!” and “peace.”

halfway through the day, we break for lunch, spread picnic blankets

on the unturned earth, contemplate the mechanics

of crop circles, wonder

how many sunflowers we’d have to plant

to make a smiley face visible from space. 

*** 

 

Wednesday’s Mail

Suddenly, I know what is in the package. It’s 

another  piece of child, sent to drive me crazy.  The package 

is just the right size to hold either 

a bunch of little bits 

or one big piece, a torso, perhaps, 

a well-cushioned head. 

I gently pick the package up and put it 

in the spare bedroom with the rest of the packages 

the tiny finger-sized boxes

the still-sealed shoeboxes concealing bare, uncalloused feet.

The rest of the mail sits waiting to be sorted through 

I flip through pizza coupons, form invitations 

to local beheadings, a flyer advertising the opening 

of a new Baptist church in my neighborhood. 

At the very bottom of the stack is a large manila envelope, 

thick with paperwork. I open it, curiously, not 

recognizing the handwriting, watch in confusion 

as photographs of people I don’t know 

pour out onto the floor. 

***

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Setu, August 2024