The bird hides inside, tucked inside my ribcage
too rotten to present. Bodies twist, limbs flail
but I didn’t come.
Dark and black and wet, he’s swimming
in the sweat of other women, rotten
to the heart. The bird is in here, barely visible
in the sick hot summer, intent on
Even through the cigarette smoke and birthday cologne
he’s in my heart—I can smell him.
Holly Day (hollylday.blogspot.com) has been a writing instructor at the Loft Literary Center in Minneapolis since 2000. Her poetry has recently appeared in Hubbub, Grain, and Third Wednesday, and hernewest books are The Tooth is the Largest Organ in the Human Body (Anaphora Literary Press), Book of Beasts (Weasel Press), Bound in Ice (Shanti Arts), and Music Composition for Dummies (Wiley).