Holly Day… The Friend

 

The Friend

you come home from work and want me
to behave, be good, be someone
you can look forward to coming

home to

but I’m afraid I’ve
found someone new to play
with. he’s fat and he’s gross but
he’s my new best friend

he shows me naked pictures and

he lets me smoke cigarettes.
if you could only see
all the fun we have together
you’d see why

I don’t need you anymore.

we run around naked
laugh at each other’s privates, and
he tells me I’m the prettiest girl
in the whole apartment

building. so don’t worry about

coming home, Mommy. I don’t need
you anymore.

 

Copyright © 2015 by Holly Day

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Holly Day… The Trip

 

The Trip

we used to pile into my dad’s van, drive
all the way from Nebraska to Texas

mostly in

silence, because complaining about the unbearable
heat would just make my dad turn the car back

around, and home

was even worse than three hundred miles of
flat black asphalt, lines of heat

reflecting off the horizon

in wavy cartoon lines. once we had reached the ocean, nothing
could keep us quiet; we screamed

from sunup to sundown, splashed in the cool

ocean surf, trying to erase
the memories
of hot tar and dead cornfields.

 

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, and Guitar All-in-One for Dummies, and the poetry books “Late-Night Reading for Hardworking Construction Men” (The Moon Publishing) and “The Smell of Snow” (ELJ Publications), while her needlepoints and beadwork have recently appeared on the covers of The Grey Sparrow Journal and QWERTY Magazine.

Copyright © 2015 by Holly Day

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thumbelina… by Holly Day

 

Thumbelina

I once was a woman who
prayed for just one little baby
someone to love and call my own
I didn’t care if it was

a little boy, a little

girl. but the only baby
that ever came was too
small, too quiet, curled tiny
in my palm. it would not move

it did not cry. morning came

and I
sat by the windowsill, imagining
walnut shell cradles
singing songs of the places
my child would never see.

 

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 The Worcester Review, Broken Pencil, and Slipstream, and she is the recipient of the 2011 Sam Ragan Poetry Prize from Barton College. Her most recent published book is “Notenlesen für Dummies Das Pocketbuch,” while her novel, “The Trouble With Clare,” is due out from Hydra Publications in 2013.

Copyright © 2013 by Holly Day