We're Uploading Holly Day's Book Today!
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- Published: Monday, 22 April 2019 18:26
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These poems are sometimes terrifyingly raw, sometimes gentle. Here's a sample from the middle of the book--after we've glimpsed insights into mothering, smothering, and awakening.
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The Daughter Who Left
Reconstruct that last day: her, standing in the doorway, suitcase in hand
straining to leave as though strapped to us, always tearful in her memories
reluctant gratitude behind closed eyes, but so anxious to get out.
She is everywhere in this house, frozen behind picture frames
trapped in a smile that changes every time the smudged glass is dusted
sometimes, she is happy. Mostly, she is barely tolerant.
There are conversations half-remembered that take on new meaning
each time they’re replayed, new depth: wisdom beyond the years
of an unhappy five-year-old, harbinger to the years of dead silence far ahead.
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Several pages later we find this--and include it here because it helps to explain the book's cover--an almost surreal needlepoint done by the author. We leave it to you, dear reader, to figure out what degree of control and spontaneity come together in creating edgy poems and in needling a human figure onto canvas. The thread is there.
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On the Right Path
In this room written entirely on paper
there is comfort in the nodding and agreeing of flowers; they
tell me that I am not just a crazy woman sitting alone
rambling about dark matter to an invisible audience
sketching out the history of myth in thread and canvas
tumbling inward into myself like a monk
quiet, at peace.
My daughter says she’s worried about me
being alone all the time, wants to know
what I’ve been writing but I won’t show her.
Someday, I will reveal the secrets
to the future of humanity to her, the origin of snails
the language of pills. But not now.
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And still later, this tribute to a woman's strength
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The Things that Come in the Mail
the flowers come in the mail, with the cards, with the lovely notes
expressing sympathy for our loss. I don’t want to answer the door anymore
want to let the tiny wreaths pile up, wither away.
I smile, thank the delivery man for my mail, I smile at my husband
I smile
at everyone. I call relatives to let them know I’m fine, I don’t need
anything. I thank them for their kindness and for the flowers.
my husband compliments me on my strength, I reply with
another smile. my face hurts from smiling so much. at night
I find myself talking to the missing baby, holding
my hands over my stomach, protecting nothing. I shuffle through
these days, find comfort in repetitive tasks. I vacuum constantly.
I crochet mittens for everyone. I turn inside myself
hold back everything but this smile, the one I show my family
my husband—it’s all I’ve got left.