Issue 4.2
Summer 2024
Holly Day
Feet Skipping up the Stairs
I am withering
under the burden of memory,
distract myself by trying to maintain
my fuckable parts.
I have forgiven the tiny guests
that left my body a disaster
but still send flowers
on my birthday, sometimes call.
Sometimes, when I’m sad,
I can feel their tiny hands on my skin
those ghost fingers that clutched at me
for more, always more
specters I miss more
than I can stand to admit.
Holly Day’s poetry has recently appeared in Analog SF, Cardinal Sins, and New Plains Review, and her published books include Music Theory for Dummies and Music Composition for Dummies. She currently teaches classes at The Loft Literary Center in Minnesota, Hugo House in Washington, and The Muse Writers Center in Virginia.
Holly's Book Recommendation
Jim Harrison: The Essential Poems
Reflection
Just outside my window, hundreds of brown and white sparrows are covering my back yard. They blend in so well with the curled brown leaves and dried-out plants that the only way I can tell they’re there is when one of them encroaches on the other’s foraging space, resulting in an explosion of tiny wings and the occasional puff of loose feathers. Every fall, this congregation of birds both excites and depresses me—excites me because it’s simply glorious to see so much wildlife, even if it is just sparrows, right outside my window, yet depressing because they only gather like this right before winter.