A House for Tiny Spirits
When I die, trap my soul in a birdcage
With a little plastic bath, and a plastic bowl for food
Wrap the bars in cellophane so I can’t slip through
Because I will never be ready to go.
I will learn all the right songs to convince your guests
That it’s a bird in the cage, and not your dead wife
I will finally learn how to whistle in key.
We wrap ourselves in plastic and bubblewrap
to avoid splintering on one another.
We layer the masks and blinders on
so we can make it through the day without incident.
There is blood under every step, trauma around every corner
carnage of butterflies and innocents in every breath exhaled.
Holly Day’s poetry has recently appeared in The Cape Rock, New Ohio Review, and Gargoyle. Her newest poetry collections are A Perfect Day for Semaphore (Finishing Line Press), In This Place, She Is Her Own (Vegetarian Alcoholic Press), A Wall to Protect Your Eyes (Pski’s Porch Publishing), I’m in a Place Where Reason Went Missing (Main Street Rag Publishing Co.), and The Yellow Dot of a Daisy (Alien Buddha Press).