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Poetry by Holly Day 

Holly is a travel writing instructor and author of Walking Twin Cities.  She lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota.



© 2009 Holly Day







Across the street, a man is making a

bed for his cat out of freshly-raked leaves

green, cut grass. The cat is lying on the

ground by the pile, unmoving, eyes open,

mouth slightly ajar. The man gently piles

lawn clippings into a pillow, birch leaves

for a comforter, more grass on top.  His

eyes look soft and misty, even from here.

Down the street, a garbage truck lurches down

the street, turns the corner. The man brushes

his eyes clean with the back of his hand and

unfurls a man-sized black garbage bag and

stuffs leaves, grass, the dead cat into its mouth.

He knots the bag and leaves it with a kiss.




When I became pregnant

I spent the first few weeks trying to kill it

stopped eating, slept

stomach down against the cold dirt

beat myself until it hurt. Then

other thoughts began to set in

of what this child could be if it lived

how the nightmare of his or her conception

could unfold until a wonderful dream. Now

I slept with my stomach to the ground

to protect the child within

my body a shield against

the wolves prowling outside my door.

When he raped me a second time I knew

he had killed our baby, the way

one knows that the sun has risen

even while still deep in sleep. By morning

I knew I was completely alone.








All work is property of Holly Day.




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