Garage Sale, etc.
By
Holly Day
Garage Sale
I would recognize your flesh even if it had been flayed from your body
tanned and stretched out and painted over, I would know you
by the Braille of familiar moles and freckles spelling out illegibles on your skin
by the warm animal smell that clings to your shirts when I gather your laundry
by the electric tingle that jumps between us when I accidentally brush your leg
in my sleep. I refuse to believe that I wouldn’t recognize you
I refuse to believe that I wouldn’t be able to pick you out of a blind lineup
of just a foot, a hand, an unfurled strip of flesh.
I tell you this as we watch the news, see people lined up to claim body parts
after a supermarket bombing, a bus crash, the warped wreckage
of strewn automobile parts, you say we should never talk about these things,
I should be quiet, this is serious. I try to explain
that I’m only demonstrating how well I know your body
I know it’s all hypothetical, but really, I do believe
I could be able to put you back together from parts gathered
from a mismatched mound separated from the metal bits of an airplane fuselage.
Catharsis
You can make a man out of straw and set it on fire. No one will care.
You can even make your man of straw have a penis made of straw
and set it on fire, people will think it’s funny, they’ll laugh
they’ll say it’s edgy. You can even put a name tag on your
straw man with a penis, call it Doug or Dave or Daddy
set it on fire, people will say something about it being a statement
wonder who this Doug or Dave is, wonder about your father
wonder what they did.
You can make a man out of clay, give it enormous genitals
fire it in a kiln, bring it home. You can give this clay figure
a nametag, or just name it, put it on a shelf where you can see it
put it in a drawer where you can’t see it, smash it against the wall
again and again until something breaks, you put a dent in the wall
you can shatter your clay man to bits.
You can do these things, because they’re easy.
So much easier than walking up to Doug or Dave or Daddy
tell them why it takes you so long to fall asleep
tell them how you still hear their voice at night when you’re lying there
alone, in the dark, in your own bed, in your own apartment
one horrible, noisy scene after another unfurling in your head
like a film that just won’t stop, it won’t stop, it won’t stop.
The Heart of the Song
Make your cuts, carefully relieve the tendons
Of their nested burden, pull it out, fist-sized, raw
Drop it in the mason jar filled with cognac, seal it tight.
If there are memories stored in cells, perhaps one day
Someone will lift my heart from this jar
Find the songs left still unwritten
Half-hummed compositions laid to rest
Symphonies yet to be realized.
Holly Day’s writing has recently appeared in Analog SF, Talking River, and New Plains Review, and her published books include Music Theory for Dummies and Music Composition for Dummies. She currently teaches classes at The Loft Literary Center in Minnesota, Hugo House in Washington, and the Indiana Writers Center.
By
Holly Day
Garage Sale
I would recognize your flesh even if it had been flayed from your body
tanned and stretched out and painted over, I would know you
by the Braille of familiar moles and freckles spelling out illegibles on your skin
by the warm animal smell that clings to your shirts when I gather your laundry
by the electric tingle that jumps between us when I accidentally brush your leg
in my sleep. I refuse to believe that I wouldn’t recognize you
I refuse to believe that I wouldn’t be able to pick you out of a blind lineup
of just a foot, a hand, an unfurled strip of flesh.
I tell you this as we watch the news, see people lined up to claim body parts
after a supermarket bombing, a bus crash, the warped wreckage
of strewn automobile parts, you say we should never talk about these things,
I should be quiet, this is serious. I try to explain
that I’m only demonstrating how well I know your body
I know it’s all hypothetical, but really, I do believe
I could be able to put you back together from parts gathered
from a mismatched mound separated from the metal bits of an airplane fuselage.
Catharsis
You can make a man out of straw and set it on fire. No one will care.
You can even make your man of straw have a penis made of straw
and set it on fire, people will think it’s funny, they’ll laugh
they’ll say it’s edgy. You can even put a name tag on your
straw man with a penis, call it Doug or Dave or Daddy
set it on fire, people will say something about it being a statement
wonder who this Doug or Dave is, wonder about your father
wonder what they did.
You can make a man out of clay, give it enormous genitals
fire it in a kiln, bring it home. You can give this clay figure
a nametag, or just name it, put it on a shelf where you can see it
put it in a drawer where you can’t see it, smash it against the wall
again and again until something breaks, you put a dent in the wall
you can shatter your clay man to bits.
You can do these things, because they’re easy.
So much easier than walking up to Doug or Dave or Daddy
tell them why it takes you so long to fall asleep
tell them how you still hear their voice at night when you’re lying there
alone, in the dark, in your own bed, in your own apartment
one horrible, noisy scene after another unfurling in your head
like a film that just won’t stop, it won’t stop, it won’t stop.
The Heart of the Song
Make your cuts, carefully relieve the tendons
Of their nested burden, pull it out, fist-sized, raw
Drop it in the mason jar filled with cognac, seal it tight.
If there are memories stored in cells, perhaps one day
Someone will lift my heart from this jar
Find the songs left still unwritten
Half-hummed compositions laid to rest
Symphonies yet to be realized.
Holly Day’s writing has recently appeared in Analog SF, Talking River, and New Plains Review, and her published books include Music Theory for Dummies and Music Composition for Dummies. She currently teaches classes at The Loft Literary Center in Minnesota, Hugo House in Washington, and the Indiana Writers Center.
