The Offering
The crows settle in the field outside
noisily fighting over the things I left them.
One flies right past my window, a cheap necklace
studded with tiny glass beads
clutched in its beak, another bird tight behind, contesting its claim.
They squawk and caw in frenzied delight
over old glass rings bought at yard sales
earrings and pendants made on my back porch
a handful of little dolls pinched out of tin foil.
They stalk my treasures until the sun goes down
leaping and hopping and shrieking in the grass
finally leaving the field too empty and quiet.
.
Migration
If you ever wondered why there are giant butterflies stretched across
those busted-up, flaky-paint houses in Kansas, it’s because those housewives know
God is a butterfly, and they want Him to know they know this secret
that Jesus curled up inside a cocoon to transform into the Holy Spirit
erupted from His prison and flew off glittering to Heaven.
On the last day, all of these cemeteries will erupt with butterflies
because this is the promise God made with that rainbow, that those who follow Him
will also become butterflies, that a coffin is shaped the way it is because
it’s just another cocoon, yawning wide to take your body to pupate, molt
eventually dissolve your corporeal form so you, too
can take to the sky.
.
Just In Case It Is
You stand on the stage and look out at the crowd and you know
that there are people watching you right now that will be talking about this night
ten twenty years from now, it might mean something, who knows
who or where you’ll be then. Perhaps there is more honor in obscurity
more validity in an artist virtually ignored until unearthed so much later
either as a shoebox of recordings in the back of a closet
or under the tip of a pickaxe upturning your work’s final resting place
but wouldn’t it be nice if the people recording this on their phones
showed this night to their children or grandchildren twenty thirty years from now
have this night met with some kind of silent reverence
because even then, they know who you are?
So take a breath before you speak, make sure your throat is clear
there’s no phlegm or couch waiting to distort your words
This could be really important.
© Holly Day
Holly Day’s writing has recently appeared in Analog SF, The Hong Kong Review, and Appalachian Journal, and her hobbies include kicking and screaming at vending machines.
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