I used to wonder if I’d recognize her
if I passed her on the street
if there would be some spark of recognition
in her eyes
years passed, and I wondered
if I had brothers and sisters
out there, not worrying so much
about the mother who left me
but still curious about family
now I don’t care. Not really.
my mother thought 12 years old
was old enough to walk away from
and if she didn’t need me then
I certainly don’t need her now.
can’t seem to get rid of your voice
constant in my ear, the subtle constant
clicking and clacking of your
spoken vices and dreams, conversations that should
have ended when you walked out the
door but they never end, they
go on and on. See your face behind my closed
eyes as if you were tattooed on the insides of my
eyelids and not some haunting reconstruct
of memory, you can not
be as beautiful as you are in
my dreams, I hope I pray that
as you walk through your day, smiling
pleasantly at strangers, that somewhere
pressed against your soul is
some painful, unshakeable photograph of me.
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).