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.
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.
***
