Deny
Holly
Day
His
arms stretch out across the ground, listen
Fingers
root fleshless in the settled earth of
corpses,
clutching at flowers left behind by children who see
him again and again in the worse memories.
He
pulls himself up through six feet of soft earth, fingers glisten
From
tunneling persistently to reach Above
through
a song of summer night, he
sucks
at air in the hot summer night, surprised his lungs still work.
Eyes
pick stone angels out against the starlight, fists and
Orchids
throb vainly, lulling perfume, thoughts of love
Tug
at what’s left of the heart of the thing bent on one rotting
knee
hiding
in the shadows, not really alive.
***
Holly
Day’s poetry, fiction, and nonfiction have most recently
appeared in Canadian Woman Studies, Skyway News,
and Ruah. She currently works as a reporter and a writing
instructor in Minneapolis, Minnesota, and lives with her two children
and husband.
©
Holly Day