The Muse

(An International Journal of Poetry)

ISSN 2249 2178

 

Volume-3                                                      DECEMBER -2013                                           Number-2

 

How Comes This Happy Change

by Holly Day


There is no escape from my body. I dream
Of cocoon fibers wrapped around me, bile
Dissolving my body into nothing, floating amorphous, intangible
Inside a tiny white pod destined for greatness
A mystery, or perhaps just thin white strands unraveling
In a curious girl's pot of green tea. But

There is no escape from my body, I am
All I will ever be. There are no wings struggling to break free
From my skin, there is no sleek, shiny, beautiful thing inside of me
Waiting for the right time to break free from what you see here
I am all I will ever be.

 

 

 

Hospice
by Holly Day


Caught in the snare of She'ol, dew gives brief life to dust
as they pull the tubes loose, hand me a bag of pills.
In the wake of disaster, we drive home from the hospital.

I dissect the memories for her, one last time
alphabetize faces in stacks of photographs
with the passionless objectivity of a grunt laborer
excavating layers of ash-buried Pompeii. I dissect the memories for her

as they come, unbidden, help catalogue
and file our stories away impartially as
a lab tech methodically filling slides with samples of cancer, she
mutters, "so that's where we went wrong"
too many times for comfort