Short bio: Holly Day is a journalism instructor living in Minneapolis, Minnesota, with her husband and two children. Her most recent nonfiction books are Music Theory for Dummies, Music Composition for Dummies, and Walking Twin Cities. Her poetry has most recently appeared in Bottle, The MacGuffin, and Not One of Us.
A Little Opening
Yesterday,
I woke to find the skin of my hand
had slipped off the bones and pooled
beside my head. My feet
are all bone now as well
one hard, yellow knob of a kneecap exposed.
I have begun painting my skeleton
color-coding the days as each piece
is laid bare. My right foot is blue. My left foot
and kneecap are both red for Tuesday.
My hand and part of my jawbone
Are emerald green.
I am saving the discarded flesh
to make into a dress, something for only
special occasions. The individual strips
are stretched out on a wire rack
in my refrigerator, where the milk
and the juice
used to go.
North Pole Dreams
little Eskimos everywhere
screaming
“please don’t squeeze the skunk!”
a kaleidoscope in shades of red
as seals were converted
to the religion of Nordstrom’s
and sent to Sax Fifth Avenue hell
a snow-white bear with a Santa Claus hat
breathed upon my neck
gave me goosebumps from here to there
then hit me ’til I was dead.
Boots XII
The small boy was lying in a pile of corpses.
Skin peeled away like the flesh of a potato.
Bombs set off just over the next hill, a sunset in the wrong direction.
Boots kicked the boy.
You will get a brief five minutes in a Time Life home video for this.
If your own child is born with no arms or legs, will it seem unfair?
Someday, reporters will ask you what you did during the war.
“Let’s play a game,” Boots said to the boy.
The child’s arms were around the waist of his mother.
The boy’s eyes opened as if in shock.
The child’s arms were around the waist of his mother.
Someday, this will all be washed away in Prozac numbness,
in the peace of a military nursing home.
In war, certain people become shining stars.
“You are not really dead.”
No blood poured from the black holes in the boy’s body.
The sharp metal of the razors sliced thin through the boy’s face.
The white of the little boy’s eyes stared straight at Boots.
The Party
upstairs
in the closet
she pounds on the door
with her club-like hands
and tries to get out
fumbling with the door handle
downstairs
in the kitchen
her brother
fixes the little finger sandwiches
for the soon-to-arrive
guests
fat pig of a girl
sits crying in the corner
pictures herself
stretched out on the table
with an apple in her mouth
Waiting
how long must we wait
for salvation to come
for fulfillment of the Revelation
for peace on Earth
for the first contact
with outer space
for the total destruction
of the human race
how long must we wait
how long can we wait
