Selected Poetry by Holly Day

"Northern Bobwhite and Red-shouldered Hawk watercolor study" by John James Audubon
Photo Source: GetArchive
The Secret Admirers
The June bugs thump against my window at night
and it sounds like someone knocking, I turn on the light
and it’s just bugs bumping against the window pane.
Because it’s midnight it should be something magical
a crow, a mouse, a squirrel, a little person
but because this is the real world it’s just a cluster of insects
throwing themselves against the side of my house, my window
again and again, driven by something that can only explained by scientists
who have textbooks and nametags that announce they’re entomologists.
In the morning, I find their shiny brown corpses
littered in the gravel in front of my window, as if
throwing themselves against my window was just too much,
or perhaps they threw themselves into my window because it was all too much.
I wonder what sort of crisis could make a little bug
want to end it all in such a dramatic way
and I think of those scientists, those entomologists, that might have the answer
think about calling one of them up to ask
but I don’t know any, and I wouldn’t have a clue how to start.
Audubon
If Audubon had had a camera when he was traveling across the continent
drawing in his journal of different birds, do you think
he would have still killed all those birds before he posed them
would he have just spent his day stretched out on the grass, taking picture after picture
stuffing rolls of film in his pockets to take home, or even better
memory cards with thousands of photographs saved
safely tucked away to download when he returned home?
Or do you think
given the opportunity to do anything he wanted with these birds
he would have taken even freakier pictures of them, dead and pliable
perhaps loaded his suitcase with tiny hats, walking sticks, coats and shoes
little sets of furniture? Would he be known for surrealism instead of naturalism,
inspired macabre hordes of bird collectors, armed with slingshots and bb guns
and not the determined naturalists with binoculars
that fill the parks on warm, summer days?
Collapsing
When I close my eyes I night I dream of all of the places I’ve been
the lonely country roads I’ve been lost on, the ocean crashing on the beach
the sound of frogs and crickets filling a night so warm and damp
it was hard to believe I was anywhere near civilization.
When I close my eyes I dream I can leave this place
without repercussion, without worry, without fear. I used to make fun of
the old people I knew who were terrified to step out into their city
because of crime, were terrified to leave their house
because things had changed too much, I used to tell everyone
I’d never be like that when I got old, but I never thought
going outside might kill me, just from breathing, just from hugging a friend
just from petting someone else’s dog, just from not washing my hands
from going to the store. My world is getting smaller and smaller
and my dreams have turned into the adventures of someone else.
Holly Day’s writing 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.
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