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Critical Threshold
The buildings stand abandoned, tilt at right angles
shifting sand dunes slow waves for
dead boats. Satellite picture
two. The tattoo craze has gone too far
bare skin is a status symbol now.
Primitives flaunt Harley belt buckles and
beer can hats. They camp by the river
relics of photo one strapped to their backs:
refrigerator doors loaded with condiments
table legs and
photos of Jesus.
The Study of Man's Past
in case of desolation, make sure
you bring your pick ax
there will be no fossils to scrape
clean with dental gear
no hair-feather bones to gently unearth
there will only be walls left
to break down
in case of isolation, make sure
you save your words
there will be no answers
forthcoming
from stone-faced monoliths
covered with weeds
save your conversations
for the day the archeologists come.
18
never imagined that at the same time
that I was trying to figure out how all the
slots and tabs worked
that the boys in class had mastered
the imaginary in-and-out imagery
were running home from school to picture
swimsuit models in slithery poses
how strange to think that by the time
I could find my own salvation, the boys my age
possessed superior intelligence
in the ways of their own flesh
and that years after losing my virginity
I was as awkward
and obsessed
as a thirteen-year-old boy.
Holly Day's poetry, fiction, and nonfiction have most recently appeared
in Canadian Woman Studies, Skyway News, and Ruah. She currently works as a
reporter and a writing instructor in Minneapolis, Minnesota, and lives with
her two children and husband. Her hobbies include skateboarding, crocheting,
and trying to peaceably communicate with uncooperative vending machines.
Email: Holly Day
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