Holly Day was
born in Hereford, Texas, “The Town Without a
Toothache.” She and her family currently live in Minneapolis,
Minnesota, where she teaches writing classes
at the Loft Literary Center.
Her published books include the nonfiction books Music Theory for Dummies, Music Composition for Dummies, Guitar
All-in-One for Dummies, Piano All-in-One for Dummies, A Brief History of
Nordeast Minneapolis; the poetry books Late-Night Reading for Hardworking Construction Men (The
Moon Publishing) and The Smell of Snow
(ELJ Publications); and a novel, The Book Of
(Damnation Books).Her needlepoints and beadwork have recently appeared on the
covers of The Grey Sparrow Journal, QWERTY Magazine, and Kiki Magazine.
Loverman
this was the end she
would never see.
Today
Waiting to
Die
The Horse
tunneling persistently
through a song of summer night
dry flesh growing moist,
absorbing damp earth
orchids throb vainly,
left behind
by children in honor of
memories
warped and bastardized.
his lungs suck at air in
the hot summer night
the man standing in the
shadows, not really alive
moist flesh sloughing
off, white bones poking through.
fingers rooting fleshless
in the settled earth.
Falling,
Flying
Strapped to her body,
weighing not nearly enough
to make the sunrise it
did when she hit
the mushroom cloud that
lit up the desert for miles around
it would have been
beautiful if anyone
had been left to see it.
She opened her eyes
just as the dots became
cars on the road
people in the street
tiny, white blocks became
buildings and houses
an end she did not want
to see.
The wind dragged against
her, but not enough
to stop her fall, just
enough
to pull roughly at her
hair, to open the top button of her shirt
with fingers as cold and
rough as death.
It was like sunrise when
she hit, if the sun
could erupt from the
middle of the earth, instead of rising around the edge of it
could pour out of broken
concrete like a an angry phoenix
Today
wheels clack and crash
and bang and smash as it
roars down the tracks,
boxcars and bright lights
and splintering wood and
spray-painted metal
the rush of the wind
sucking everything into
its wake a dragon a
monster
my bright-eyed salvation
oh, the whirr of noisy
metal wheels as I choose my spot
on the landing, the
widening eyes
of the people to the
right of me
the people to the left of
me
as they realize what I
mean to do
this is happening today.
I let the horse live
because we were both going
nowhere, he
with his leg twisted
beneath him, lying on the ground
me, with my pockets empty
and nothing but a horse
to keep me company.
He couldn’t run
even after his leg healed up
couldn’t carry much
on his back without stumbling
so I set up camp where
the accident had happened
spent most nights
sleeping against the horse’s warm back.
Eventually other people
came through the valley
wanted to talk to me,
mostly
to ask directions, ask
where the nearest town was
ask what I was doing,
sitting there, propped up against a lame horse.
I mostly pretended I was
too simple to answer
only responding when they
asked me why I didn’t just kill the
poor old crooked no-good
beast
told them it was none of
their business what I did
with my own damned
horse.
there were eventually too
many miles between us
to let it die
where it fell.
ironically, because I
didn’t kill it
and let it hobble,
burdenless, behind me as we traveled
I had a superior
traveling companion:
one that didn’t
interrupt when I spoke
never said anything
itself.
~HOLLY DAY
