The Impossibleness of Abstract Representation
where are we now? one man asked
we shone our flashlights around the cave
saw only stone, tall ceilings, dark passages
darting off in every direction. The map
showed us which random tributary
would take us back to sunlight, although it was hard to believe
that we were somewhere on that flat piece of paper, a cluster of flies
in a network of blue spaghetti loops. But yes, there was the pool
right next to our path, just like it was on the map, tiny white fish
darting about in the light of our flashlights, blind as the furry brown bats
circling overhead. So when do we start going up? asked another
man who looked too tired to go on. Are we almost there?
I press my nose to the window wonder
when you’re coming home. Each time
someone walks past the house I
think it’s you.
I busy myself with things I know
would make you happy
if you’d only come home. I make your blankets
smell like my skin so that
you’ll dream of me when you’re in bed.
The sun goes hot and high then sets.
I eat dinner alone, think of your key
clinking against the door
hear your footsteps in the hall
in my head
where will I go?
Holly Day’s poetry has recently appeared in Plainsongs, The Long Islander, and The Nashwaak Review. Her newest poetry collections are In This Place, She Is Her Own (Vegetarian Alcoholic Press), A Wall to Protect Your Eyes (Pski’s Porch Publishing), Folios of Dried Flowers and Pressed Birds (Cyberwit.net), Where We Went Wrong (Clare Songbirds Publishing), Into the Cracks (Golden Antelope Press), and Cross Referencing a Book of Summer (Silver Bow Publishing).