Holly Day- Three Poems

            If I Knew Braille

If I knew Braille, perhaps I could read

the graffiti of  purple-mouthed limpets clinging

to old, sea-washed boulders

the secret Bibles of zebra mussels clinging to dry-docked boats

the last, profound gasps of snails and slugs dried out in clumps

on the sun-baked pavement in front of my house.

There may be language in the teetering piles of droppings

the rabbits have scattered throughout my yard

written in squirrel on the skin of half-nibbled tulip bulbs

lifted from the ground and carried into the trees

in the fresh pattern of teeth marks gnawed into the table leg

by the dog. I am missing too many important things

because I don’t know how to read.

The Last Place You’d Look

The repairman finally came, sucked the soul

out of my cable tv and left only

walnuts behind. I told him

I had already given my heart

to a pony-riding clown

and didn’t need anything from anyone

anymore, didn’t need to be made a part

of anyone else’s sideshow act.

His voice muffled by pillows

and panties, he told me

not all insects are dangerous,

and some even make our lives more

comfortable. However, he did not tell me

how to turn the television on

and ants still give me the willies.

This is the definition of want. You can only go so far in a

boat. Sooner or later, we all have to sleep. Most

people are not as smart as they look.

These are painful rainbows to handle. I keep everything

in my pockets, except my money

which I don’t.

            April

You wake me up to tell me

that the snow has come back

that the garden outside is completely

obscured in white. You say it much too loud

for this sort of news

for this early in the morning, almost joyful.

Half-asleep, the resentful part of me believes

perhaps you are responsible for the snow.

I drag myself out of bed and call the dog

who comes, joyful at the prospect of a morning walk.

I put on her leash and we step outside

into a world buried in white snow

the tips of new tulips, the green sprays of crocus

already shriveling and darkening in the cold.



Short bio: 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).