©2002 Holly Day
I hit him over the head with his own hammer,
pulled it out of his back pocket, straight nails spilling out
noisy on the concrete floor. I hit him so hard
the round edge sunk an inch into his skull
the sound of a hard-cooked egg being smashed
with a fist.

I hit him square in the back of the head,
I swung the hammer like Thor in the flames
sparks behind my eyelids like the flash before
thunder. He half-turned to face me, reached up
with one hand, tried to pull the hammer free as he
fell to the ground.

I hit him so hard he stumbled
forward, reflexively breaking with an open palm
an instant before sliding on
towards the floor. His eyes fixed on a point
far ahead of us, something I had obviously missed, a mar
on the white baked tile.

Of the Highway

©2002 Holly Day
I’m in love with the lonely ones, those
that peek shy from beneath
too much hair and makeup, costume themselves
angry and violent while shrinking away
wrapped in thoughts of consequence and self-loathing

I’m in love with the damaged ones, those
that scream still from injustices in infancy
feel fingers on their flesh while all alone
drown agony in vice to shut out the noise.
I’m in love with the frightened ones, call them

to my body to replace
absent mothers, sadistic fathers, take
dreams inside me grown too old to bear.
I’m in love with the monster-challenging
shadows, the black-clad children

burning themselves to an early death
resisting adolescence, pain.
Come, resolute angels,
let me heal your broken wings.


©2002 Holly Day
Death moves among the bodies
smiling gently at future friends—
all men are her lovers
in the end.

She closes eyes still wet with tears
compassion turns her pale cheeks pink
like roses blooming in an
albino garden.

And with her tiny instrument
she draws the pain from cancer knots
a hollow bone, her musical straw-
a piper’s tune of freedom.

Loneliness rises, takes her hand
and follows her
[click to view introduction]