poems by Holly Day

            In Memoriam 

 

When I die

I want you to name some sort of food after me

a sandwich, a salad, even just a mixed drink. It can be

something that already has a regular name, like

peanut butter and jelly, Waldorf, gimlet.

Just add something different, like pomegranate seeds,

or a teeny tiny umbrella, something to set it apart

Make it look like something new.

 

I don’t need a fancy headstone

poems read or songs sung at my funeral.

Just make sure I find my way into someone’s lunchsack

or hastily scribbled onto an unsuspecting menu

casually dropped in conversations about

exciting local cuisine or

unacceptable changes made to home-cooked standards.

 

 

 

            Flutter By

 

I believe entomologists must have the best sex dreams of all

masturbate to the memory of pins pushed through flesh

as wings flutter vainly under their gentle touch, leave glittery streaks

 

on the cardboard mount before dying in perfect repose.

These are the things that dampen an entymologist’s sheets, prisoners held captive

under glass domes, poised on fake flowers, fake leaves

 

the feel of their index finger on the head of the pin, pushing it in,

pulling it out, resetting it for the perfection needed

to make a successful mounting, a piece of ass good enough

 

to display before other entomology club members. In these dreams, the butterflies

have longer legs, hands and fingers that clench in clawed desire

as the pin goes in, sigh in relief

 

as the pin is pulled out. The beetles say your name as they die

say it over and over again as though trying to remember it for next time

or perhaps to pass on recommendation for the next insect in line.

 

 

 

Some of the Things that Happen Around Us

 

The violinist folds himself into his case, tucks his wings

in carefully, folds his arms across his chest, sleeps.

Beside his case is a smaller case, with a handle, and in it

his violin also rests, perhaps dreaming of new strings.

 

There is no need for furniture in this house. Everything sits or sleeps

in a case or a cage. The shelves are filled with kennels containing

sleeping cats and dogs, covered birdcages of canaries and finches

parrots who think they’re in charge. Even the unnecessary couch is covered

 

encased in clear plastic, as if being preserved for freshness

as though some day, the violinist might have company

and they will want something brand new to sit on.