Holly Day wrote to the editor , see what she had too say.
Dear Poetry Editor, Vintage Poetry:
For me, November is all about waiting for things to get really bad around
here, when the weather's gotten just cold enough that all the trees are bare
and all the plants are dead and most of the birds are gone but it's still
not too cold to try to spend as much time as possible outside because any
day now, it'll be 30 below zero and you won't have any choice but to huddle
inside, immobilized under blankets until spring. I've got a blanket on my
lap right now as I type this, but it's more for the cat than me. If it
wasn't for the cat hiding under my chair, curled up in the folds of the
blanket and purring against my feet, I'd be fine without my office blanket
for at least another couple of weeks.
Hope you like the poems.
Holly Day
Short bio: Holly Day is a housewife and mother of two living in Minneapolis,
Minnesota who teaches needlepoint classes in the Minneapolis school
district. Her poetry has recently appeared in Hawai'i Pacific Review, The
Oxford American, and Slipstream, and she is a recent recipient of the Sam
Ragan Poetry Prize from Barton College. Her book publications include Music
Composition for Dummies, Guitar-All-in-One for Dummies, and Music Theory for
Dummies, which has recently been translated into French, Dutch, German,
Spanish, Russian, and Portuguese.
Holly Day
878 20th Avenue Se
Minneapolis MN 55414 USA
(612) 378-4781
lalena@bitstream.net
Z
last night I dreamed about your fingers on my flesh
my body too small to take your words anymore,
I am not your handpuppet, mister last night I
screamed myself awake to putrid memories of you
the linoleum pattern of the laundryroom
floor your anticipation festers inside of
me, I am not as fucking stupid as you think
Holly Day
878 20th Avenue Se
Minneapolis MN 55414 USA
(612) 378-4781
lalena@bitstream.net
Yesterday, 1995
After he was born, I threw out
all the photos taken of my life, the
days before his birth, determined to become
someone else, wanted to be
new, like him, my baby.
sold all my records to pay for
rent and groceries, tossed all my clothes that didn't fit
all I owned crammed in a backpack
jewelry I could sell for
cash, enough to take me and my son
somewhere safe
Holly Day
878 20th Avenue Se
Minneapolis MN 55414 USA
(612) 378-4781
lalena@bitstream.net
Tourist Season
we'd sit by the lake and he'd tell me stories
of the places he'd been, with convoluted names like
"Nebraska" and "Mississippi"
the difference in the way one pronounces "Kansas"
and "Arkansas." The people in his stories
were as exotic as the places they lived-men
who cut sheet metal into animal silhouettes
bent spades into birdhouses and
turned old train cars into hotels.
I wanted to badly to be with him in Colorado
to stand in the exact spot where four state lines met
to take a small rubber raft over rocks and dangerous rapids
and survive it all. He kept saying, Next time, next time, I promise.
Next time."
I waited by the lake for him to come and get me
waited with my suitcase packed, ready to leave
visions of Indianapolis burning holes in my brain
but he never came back to get me, never took me away.
Holly Day
878 20th Avenue Se
Minneapolis MN 55414 USA
(612) 378-4781
lalena@bitstream.net
Dreaming
when I became pregnant
I spent the first few weeks trying to kill it
stopped eating, slept
stomach down against the cold dirt
beat myself until it hurt. Then
other thoughts began to set in
of what this child could be if it lived
how the nightmare of his or her conception
could unfold until a wonderful dream. Now
I slept with my stomach to the ground
to protect the child within
my body a shield against
the wolves prowling outside my door.
when he raped me a second time I knew
he had killed our baby, the way
one knows that the sun has risen
even while still deep in sleep. By morning
I knew I was completely alone.
Holly Day
878 20th Avenue Se
Minneapolis MN 55414 USA
(612) 378-4781
lalena@bitstream.net
Wednesday
The seagulls search the sand, seeking
the crippled claws of the cold, curled up
beneath the burnt rubble of the beachside boardinghouse
the remains of the fire, thirteen boys dead.
Diligently digging deep into the dead, digging past
the makeshift markers left in memory
by the sympathetic who saw the squatters' squalor
but still seemed surprised by the flames.
