By Holly Day
random memories scrawl across the knuckles
of a clenched fist pounding its way into my house
drunk. a recitation of past traumas and imagined
slights, the story of my life reduced
to a single scrap of paper.
at twenty, with my newborn son, huddled
in the back of a closet, listening
to the angry breath of the man
on the other side of the door,
panting and wheezing as if removed
from a much-needed incubator, wondering
who is this person I’m leaving
how did we get here?
I could barely tell my mother
anything, I remember saying something
about all the wrong people
who fall into my life.
Holly Day’s writing has recently appeared in Analog SF, Cardinal Sins, 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 Muse Writers Center in Virginia.
