Springtime
Inside Always
The Vocation That Has Chosen Me
Upon Coming Across a Mysterious Bag That Could Be Filled with Pot
Early Spring Walk
the river cracks awake in the middle of the night, sounds like something
falling inside the house, sounds like the dog/kid broke something. I get up
so he doesn’t have to, stomp out into the living room bathed in bright moonlight, see
the dog curled up by the front door, oblivious to whatever woke us up.
From the living room, I can hear more ice breaking off, feel the river waking up
Pushing trapped branches and dead deer off to the side banks, determined
To become an unhindered body once more. From the bedroom, my husband asks
What’s going on, I don’t know where to start.
Our paths will never cross because this house has already claimed me.
I truly believe that if I could just step through the front door, go outside
for something besides the groceries or check the mail, I could be a part
of the world I see streaking past my windows every day. I know I could.
My husband comes home from work and tells me I’m not missing anything
being trapped inside all day, how lucky I am that I’ve found a way
to just stay home all day. I shrug and nod and say I guess, there were palm prints
on the window I wiped away earlier, like frost on the inside of the glass,
I don’t know
if they were mine.
The Vocation That Has Chosen Me
There will never be enough time to catalog
all of the dreams of the things in my yard
in my house: the fat squirrels that roost in the trees outside
the sparrows that peck at the dead insects in the air conditioner set in the window
the mice that live behind my stove, the spider curled in wait
in the corner of my room.
They whisper their stories in Morse code raps
clicking mandibles and tiny, clawed feet, demanding
I stay up just one more hour, one more hour to trap
their thoughts with my pen, in words I can remember.
When I dream, it’s of dust mites and fleas
bits of cheese left out on the counter, the warmth
of the summer sun, an explosion of flowers
the songs of the stars and a terror
of vacuums. There will never be enough time
to transcribe my cat’s demands, the hopes and dreams
of the blind voles in my basement
all of these things I need to write.
Upon Coming Across a Mysterious Bag That Could Be Filled with Pot
I pass the suspicious bag as nonchalantly as possible. I think if I were younger, I would have reached down and stuck it in my pocket just in case
but as an adult, accompanied by a 12-year-old
I don’t just reach down to pick up a bag of weed.
However,
I do walk by it twice more, nudge it with my toe to see if I can get it
to unroll further, all the while, looking at candies, nodding my head in approval
of treats my daughter wants to get, suggesting the pizza we should pick up
for lunch that day. I can’t get the bag to unroll enough
With just the tip of my toe to fully
identify its contents: It could be some nasty dogshit trick, could be
real pot that fell out of someone’s pocket, could be lawn clippings.
I wonder at possible television reality shows, police stings involving
a whole eighth of pot, or just some dumb kid
with big, useless pockets, who dropped a bag of pot
in my neighborhood convenience store.
The dogs pulls at her leash because she knows everything
has changed from last week to this, that even the air is different with spring
all of the old smells have disappeared into the new grass blades pushing up
through the warm soil. The dog pulls at her leash
or perhaps, I’m the one pulling at her leash, trying to rein in the burgeoning excitement
that comes with an early spring, trying to find a way to let her know
that this could all change with a sudden snowfall, an April blizzard
a storm that could go on for days and days and days. It’s hard to tell a dog
to not enjoy themselves too much because they’ll only get hurt in the end,
besides, they never listen.
Holly Day’s poetry has recently appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction, Grain, and The Tampa Review. Her newest poetry collections are In This Place, She Is Her Own (Vegetarian Alcoholic Press), A Wall to Protect Your Eyes (Pski’s Porch Publishing), Folios of Dried Flowers and Pressed Birds (Cyberwit.net), Where We Went Wrong (Clare Songbirds Publishing), Into the Cracks (Golden Antelope Press), and Cross Referencing a Book of Summer (Silver Bow Publishing), while her newest nonfiction books are Music Theory for Dummies and Tattoo FAQ.
