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Almost Real
she sings about the things
air conditioners dream of, of the wants
of a battered toaster
as it sits rusting in an alley
of the hopes and fears of a garage door
as a new car pulls into the drive.
she sings these things though metal lips
lungs whirring and grinding as bellows contract
jaw clicking and clattering open and shut
brass skeletal hands reaching out to the crowd
seeking empathy and sympathy
for all the dead.
The Noise Outside
I don’t know how I’m expected to think
with all this nature screaming in my ears
the tiny yellow goldfinches building nests in my hair
the black-and-white juncos pecking at my bare toes
the incessant cackling of sparrows fighting
for a spot on my lap. I don’t know how I’m supposed to think
over the heavy breathing of the trees, the damp rustling of worms
the slugs and the millipedes trying to read over my shoulder.
the angry butterfly wings trying to chase me
from my seat, the metronomic flicking of flower petals opening
and shutting, leaves unfurling, trying to catch
the last of the day’s dying light.
Holly Day is a housewife and mother of two living in Minneapolis, Minnesota who teaches needlepoint classes for the Minneapolis school district and writing classes at The Loft Literary Center. Her poetry has recently appeared in The Worcester Review, Broken Pencil, and Slipstream, and she is the recipient of the 2011 Sam Ragan Poetry Prize from Barton College. Her most recent published books are Walking Twin Citie and Notenlesen für Dummies Das Pocketbuch.
Email: Holly Day
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