The rabbit stands on its hind legs
a black silhouette against the snow
framed perfect in the arch of the trellis outside.
Its paws are so small and perfect
held against its warm, furry chest.
It sees me watching it through the window
stares back, curious, as if wondering
whether I’m just another feature of an unnecessary house
some ghost shade, a movie playing in a frame of artificial light
or another living creature, perhaps trapped
The Places Left Behind
I wear my mother’s winter coat, reflect
on the life she never had—sacrifice
the father that wasn’t ghost hand in mine
sixteen years old and so much in love so
flamboyant, faded photos on the mantle
a smile I never saw, collapsing seduction
fading into the gray woman who held me
and cried. And now I’m her, wearing
her clothes and fighting against natural
reorientation. I remember growing old
growing up in her my house, lawnmower
squealing banging in my head, echoing father’s
private mantra. It’s easy to forgive
terror him of what he did to me
us both this one—thank god
there isn’t a gun in this house.
I’ve Taken to Writing Suicide Notes
I’ve taken to sleeping naked at night
dreaming terrible lies beneath these stained sheets--.
we meant something, we mean something, you were
just passing through.
There are places in me you can never see.
I’m practicing my handwriting, where the trembling comes in
sprawled out on the floor for invisible cameramen
to trace me in chalk, walk away.
I’m losing my mind with you inside me
you can never go,memories, no.
Short bio: Holly Day has taught writing classes at the Loft Literary Center in Minnesota, since 2000. Her poetry has recently appeared in Oyez Review, SLAB, and Gargoyle, while her recently published books include Music Theory for Dummies (3rd edition), Piano All-in-One for Dummies, The Book Of, and Nordeast Minneapolis: A History.