his letters unfold and flutter like
some codex written by a foreign hand, I don’t
recognize his handwriting after all these years, can’t
remember the things he said in the letters that made me
forgive and suppress so many things.
I can still picture him glaring at me
from across the room, face frozen in a stone frown
like some feathered Olmec death god, some devotee
from a severe mystery cult determined
to convert me to his way of thinking.
HOLLY DAY is a housewife and mother of two living in Minneapolis, Minnesota, who teaches needlepoint classes for the Minneapolis school district and writing classes at The Loft Literary Center. Her poetry has recently appeared in Hawai’i Pacific Review, Slant, and The Tampa Review, and she is the 2011 recipient of the Sam Ragan Poetry Prize from Barton College. Her most recent published books are Walking Twin Cities and Notenlesen für Dummies Das Pocketbuch.