18

I have given my father exactly what he wanted since me and my sister were teens--
a baby boy. My father watches my son with eyes so close to love it hurts, the
way he watches my son as if he was the true treasure
that my own participation in the child’s creation and rearing is
inconsequential. I remember his love,
the weeks we were abandoned for band practice, school, anything, while we
found love with other men, just as suitable as him. We got
nothing growing up. Two girls, we tried our best to fit in his dreams, got
involved in sports, joined track and soccer and still we
found his affections lacking.

My son squeals crazy when Grandpa walks in and I am sixteen
again, fading into wallpaper, old furniture, watch the
man too tired to teach me to read playing horse with my treasure,
a child I’m trying desperately not to hate right now. This is
even worse than childhood--my heart cramps again, this is mine to love,
“He’s my son!” restraining, again and again, we
me the adult and the little girl inside me--claps along with glee, finally,
Daddy isn’t mad.

- Holly Day

(added 04.26.09)

El Castilla

she/I says
fuck you, pay attention to me
this, I am, we are
standing before you

invisible, the voices
never loud enough to be heard above
the tiny hole inside me filled
with screaming, you, you are

oblivious to the delicate flower
of my trembling heart
these frightened bloody clues I leave
spell L-O-V-E. always for you.

- Holly Day

(featured in the poetry forum 04.26.09)

Fusebox

at 3 a.m.
you will rise
and come to me

the computer
will stay on, and say
this to me before I
go to bed my husband

says I
am wasting
electricity

it takes one recycled cola can
to equal the production energy
of two hours of leaving
the computer on, idle

more
if I don’t get up from the bed
right away

I am bad
I am killing the planet
slowly, these hours and minutes
add up.

- Holly Day

(added 04.26.09)