The horses would let him drop onto them
from an overhanging tree branch
when it was finally warm again, when we let the horses
in the front yard. I’d always be the Indian
in an obstacle course between the gray stacks of
grain silos and weathered, tilted barns.
He married young, so young, and his wife
a twenty-year-old maniac drove her truck with a kitchen knife laying in her lap
told me he had confessed to being in love with me
when we were out in the stable feeding baby goats new grass.
I fell in love with Jason because the horses did, I think
dreamt of him holding me in his strong, sunburned arms
his wife tried to kill me the first time she met me
he had told her all sorts of quiet things about me.
I tried to explain that things happen when kids grow up together
my cousin, the cowboy, the boy I ran screaming after
she just didn’t want to listen.
my daughter lies in her crib screaming
some formless, aimless rage and I
suck angrily at my cigarette say
I’m glad that I’m going to die someday
picture her crying silent reminisce
over me in a coffin, lying back, eyes closed
I wonder if it’s me she hates so much I
don’t understand a word she’s saying
In the Seat Beside Me
I can feel the knots
the odd angles, the bones,
want to tell her to run, run, run
but deep inside, I know she will just go home.
She sits so close to me, pressed against her seat
the damage rippling under her thin skin
Holly Day has taught writing classes at the Loft Literary Center in Minnesota, since 2000. Her poetry has recently appeared in Oyez Review, SLAB, and Gargoyle, while her recently published books include Music Theory for Dummies (3rd edition), Piano All-in-One for Dummies, The Book Of, and Nordeast Minneapolis: A History. firstname.lastname@example.org