BY HOLLY DAY
Copyright is held by the author.
Formless
my daughter lies in her crib screaming
and screaming and screaming and I wonder
if it’s me she hates so much or if she’s
just angry at the whole world in general
some formless, aimless rage and I
say to her, because I can, and she
doesn’t understand a word I’m saying
what will you say when it’s me in the crib
in a coffin, lying back, eyes closed
sewn shut will you suck angrily at your
cigarette and call me a fucking bitch
say you’re glad that I’m dead that I
was a horrible woman or will you
cry silent reminisce pat my folded dead
dry hands miss me?
The New Farm
we plant the apple trees in long, straight rows, twist
the thin, soft limbs into gang symbols, secret signs
chuckle amongst ourselves at the thought of a someday forest of giant hands
flash-frozen in “East Side!” “Longhorns!” and “peace.”
halfway through the day, we break for lunch, spread picnic blankets
on the unturned earth, contemplate the mechanics
of crop circles, wonder
how many sunflowers we’d have to plant
to make a smiley face visible from space.
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