Time Left Over

by Holly Day

I wear my mother’s winter coat, reflect
on the life she never had—sacrifice
the father that wasn’t ghost hand in mine
sixteen years old and so much in love so
flamboyant, faded photos on the mantle
a smile I never saw, collapsing seduction
fading into the gray woman who held me
and cried. And now I’m her, wearing
her clothes and fighting against natural
reorientation. I remember growing old
growing up in her my house, lawnmower
squealing banging in my head, echoing father’s
private mantra. It’s easy to forgive
terror him of what he did to me
us both this one—thank god
there isn’t a gun in this house.

Dancer

by Holly Day

The girl on the stage winks at you
opens her blouse
and rips out her heart.
It beats frantically at your feet.
You ignore it.
The girl on the stage
begins her song.
It’s an old love song,
your song,
when the two of you were together.
Unfair of her
to dredge up your past
in front of so many people.
But the song drives you crazy.
You promise her anything
and throw her a tissue
which she stuffs in the hole
in her chest
where it blooms
blood coursing through its paper veins
like a carnation
in a buttonhole

My Father’s Women

by Holly Day

my father was never taught how to love us
and I would never fault him that. Despite
not having any women in his life between
the death of his mother and meeting my mother
he dealt with us, his daughters, as adequately
as any angry, confused young man could.
Evangelical, he lectured on and on
about how we had only two choices in the world, we could either
grow up to be intelligent, independent, strong,
and, if we were lucky, alone
or we could concentrate our energy on being pretty
and appealing
be a whore, just like our mother. Two choices
with no gray area allowances.
I never faulted him his confusion
with us, his reasoning, his world
where family and love equaled obligation and
unbearable responsibility.
I just wish he was still here
to see how sad and wrong his vision really was
and how good the things he hated could be.