Under the Lights
I open my mouth and imagine butterflies are going to fly out
that inside me are flocks of brilliant monarchs that have struggled
to hatch and pupate and transform into brilliance for years.
I command these butterflies to fly out of me, through my open mouth,
to burst through my skin in brilliant flocks of black-tipped wings and rainbows.
I can almost feel them inside me, encourage them
to force their way through my body, through my skin
can almost feel their tiny claws struggling to find purchase
along the slick, wet meat inside my chest.
Nothing comes out and I am empty, I don’t understand
why the room isn’t filled with rainbow-tinted butterflies
why there aren’t sparkling clouds of wings filling the room
obscuring the quiet crowd before me. I was sure there was something
better inside of me than what could be seen through my skin. The audience
stares at me in impatient confusion from rows of folded metal chairs
they came here to see me do something special
they came to see something wonderful, or just something.
The butterflies I thought would carry this performance
die just short of emerging, perhaps suffocated by doubt
or just unable to find a clear path out.
Inside
You should have stayed out me, I think
as I dig into my skin with the burnt end of a safety pin
expose the hiding place of the tiny insect that’s burrowed into my flesh
expose it and its invisible brood to sunlight and air.
You should have picked another spot, I amend
wondering how long it would have taken me to discover
the little creature hiding beneath my flesh
if it had decided to settle into a spot in my ass crack
in the middle of my back, somewhere in my foot.
It probably would have taken weeks before I realized
that the itchy patch in the spot I couldn’t reach
was a spreading colony of mites
the descendants of an unwelcome passenger
picked up during a weekend by the lake.
Ant Farm
The terrarium tips and the ants spill out with the sand
Covering the floor in shifting, moving grains. There is no recapturing
The hundreds of tiny citizens of the interrupted world
There is no recovery of this artificial civilization.
The ants, elated at their newfound freedom, run through the house
Explore all of the cupboards that could previously
Only be sensed from behind glass. An ant can carry ten times its own weight.
Crackers weigh much more than that, but you can’t blame them for trying.
Eventually, an exit leading through the kitchen wall to the garden is found
Igniting instincts from memories carried generations before.
The ants fall into line, just as if they had always done this
As if they had never lived trapped between two planes of glass
As if they had been living in the world outside this whole time.
About the Author
Holly Day’s writing has recently appeared in Analog SF, Talking River, 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 Indiana Writers Center.
