Fall 2018, Volume 25

Poetry by Holly Day


The man on the bus stop talks about the government the same way
my grandmother used to talk about God.
He tells me the things he believes in the same way
my grandmother used to tell me about her church, as if he’s challenging me to doubt him
doubt the miniseries of conspiracies running in his head.

Being a good granddaughter, I just nod my head and smile
because who am I to doubt that all evil is based on the number seven
or that the government’s trying to get rid of pennies because only quarters have microchips in them
or that the media’s trying to turn all of America towards Satanism
or that guys will think I’m a dirty girl because my bra straps’ hanging out?

Some Questions about the History of Medicine

When a man is disconsolate, there is no uterus
to remove, no ovaries to excise, no stubborn hymen
to carefully pierce or sew tightly closed. When a man is discontented
no one talks of removing his penis.

When a man is unfulfilled, no one talks
of shock treatment, a lobotomy, ice baths to bring on hypothermia
solitary confinement. When a man is unhappy
with his wife, his children, no one talks
of drilling a hole in his skull
to expose the diseased part of his brain to air
to let out all the pressure in his head.

When a man is despondent, melancholic, forlorn
no one whispers of how he might kill his children
of how he’s physically unsuited to parenthood, of how
something must be profoundly wrong with him

to not be completely satisfied with life.




BIO: Holly Dayís poetry has recently appeared in The Cape Rock, New Ohio Review, and Gargoyle. Her newest poetry collections are A Perfect Day for Semaphore (Finishing Line Press), In This Place, She Is Her Own (Vegetarian Alcoholic Press), A Wall to Protect Your Eyes (Pskiís Porch Publishing), I'm in a Place Where Reason Went Missing (Main Street Rag Publishing Co.), and The Yellow Dot of a Daisy (Alien Buddha Press).