The Muse

(An International Journal of Poetry)

ISSN 2249 2178


Volume-2                                              JUNE -2012                                                    Number-1




Yellow Sand
by Holly Day

we load up our post-apocalyptic fortunes
of flower bulbs and bright-colored beads
take to the road. tilted blue street signs
of dead civilizations mark the path
streets built wide enough for ox-carts
crumble under our feet.

sunlight glints through the hollowed-out eyes
of battered skyscrapers that loom like mausoleums
for headless mannequins wearing scant threads of fashions
forgotten long before the end of the world.


by Holly Day

we watch the bombs bloom through the windows
pass the potatoes, turkey, corn
say grace over tightly-clenched hands

here is our peace.

through the windows, the sky grows dark, then red
we turn up the gas on the propane lamps
clear the dinner table, light a fire

spread blankets over the children, falling asleep.

the sky grows dark, then red, then black
the window glass glistens against the heat
I lay next to my husband, put my head on his chest

close my eyes and make one last little wish.