Holly Day

Chrestomathic

There’s a blessing that comes with moving a body quickly from the bed to the grave.
The skin doesn’t have time to get cold and grow hard, it’s still warm
and soft, and it’s easy to imagine that it’s all some kind of game
involving the husband pretending to be dead while the wife
drags the husband down the stairs, out the door, into the back yard
where the husband waits, still pretending, while the wife digs a deep hole
to roll the body in.

The next day, I couldn’t get the copper penny smell out of my nose
could taste it in the back of my throat. It’s hard to explain to people
why I keep clearing my throat all day when there’s such an awful secret
hiding in the back yard, it’s allergies, it’s a cold, it’s COVID-19.
Anything to get them to stop asking questions
especially about where that man is, “Where’s that man of yours?”
It’s a reoccurring thread of conversation, and one can only answer
“He’s inside getting some work done,” or “He’s still asleep”
so many times before it sounds like the lie it is.

Holly Day’s poetry has recently appeared in Analog SF, Cardinal Sins, and New Plains Review, and her published books include Music Theory for Dummies and Music Composition for Dummies. She currently teaches classes at The Loft Literary Center in Minnesota, Hugo House in Washington, and The Muse Writers Center in Virginia.

Next Poet: Avery Simmons