Muscadine Lines: A Southern Journal

Deny

Holly Day


His arms stretch out across the ground, listen
Fingers root fleshless in the settled earth of
corpses, clutching at flowers left behind by children who see

him again and again in the worse memories.

He pulls himself up through six feet of soft earth, fingers glisten
From tunneling persistently to reach Above
through a song of summer night, he

sucks at air in the hot summer night, surprised his lungs still work.

Eyes pick stone angels out against the starlight, fists and
Orchids throb vainly, lulling perfume, thoughts of love
Tug at what’s left of the heart of the thing bent on one rotting knee

hiding in the shadows, not really alive.

***

Holly Day’s poetry, fiction, and nonfiction have most recently appeared in Canadian Woman Studies, Skyway News, and Ruah. She currently works as a reporter and a writing instructor in Minneapolis, Minnesota, and lives with her two children and husband.

© Holly Day

Muscadine Lines: A Southern Journal ISSN 1554-8449, Copyright © 2004-2012