{"id":40,"date":"1996-07-05T00:40:16","date_gmt":"1996-07-05T04:40:16","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.greasymonkey.net\/MonkeyBLOG\/?p=40"},"modified":"2008-07-05T00:41:10","modified_gmt":"2008-07-05T04:41:10","slug":"holly-day","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/www.fosterjohnson.com\/POETRY\/?p=40","title":{"rendered":"Holly Day"},"content":{"rendered":"

Boots XIV<\/strong><\/p>\n

Boots dragged the small body over the pile of blades.
\nHe swung the little boy high into the air,
\nhigh above the bodies of his dead parents.<\/p>\n

Someday, a woman will trace the long white scars on your back
\nand ask where they came from.<\/p>\n

Boots kicked the boy.<\/p>\n

If your child is born with no arms or legs, will it seem unfair?
\nBoots was proud of his fine endowments.
\nAll the old ghosts will be replaced with new ones.<\/p>\n

Someday, a woman will trace the long white scars on your back
\nand ask where they came from.<\/p>\n

Someday, a woman will trace the long white scars on your back
\nand ask where they came from.<\/p>\n

The white of the little boy’s eyes stared straight at Boots.
\nSomeday, your child will ask you what you did during the war.
\nSkin peeled away like the flesh of a potato.<\/p>\n

If your child is born with no arms or legs, will it seem unfair?
\nSomeday, reporters will ask you what you did during the war.
\nThe child’s arms were around the waist of his mother.
\nHe swung the little boy lower, lower to the ground,
\nuntil the body was dragging over the ground.<\/p>\n

He scattered a handful of razorblades over the ground.
\nThis will all fade to yearly get-togethers with old army buddies.
\nBombs set just over the next hill, a sunset in the wrong direction.<\/p>\n

A Natural Progression<\/strong><\/p>\n

I see him resting in his crib, tiny fist
\ncurled and tucked beneath his cheek, breath
\ncoming in and going out in soft
\nlittle sighs–I could watch him forever. Somewhere,
\nfar away
\nin another future I could have had
\nacolytes in academia
\ncollege graduation with a ribboned bundle of diploma
\nfamily scattered happy in the crowd
\nproud of someone
\nwho isn’t me. This is me.<\/p>\n

I have succumb to the rhythms
\nof hourly feedings, the meditative tasks of changing,
\nwashing, powdering, listening
\nto his change of breath from sleeping to
\nalmost awake, my body relaxing when he is relaxed
\nmy breasts suddenly heavy at his first
\ntiny cries–<\/p>\n

My father sends me letters, telling me
\nI will never be a writer
\nand a mother, that the two things
\ntake too much of one’s time to exist
\nsimultaneously. He says this to me
\nwithout anger, or resentment
\nthe words of a man too old and too tired
\nto dream. I dip fingers into a tiny palm
\nfeel my baby son squeeze back and I disagree,
\nI disagree–this is all inspiration.
\nThis is all I need to know.<\/p>\n

What to Come In<\/strong><\/p>\n

can’t put it into would
\nhave to (incredible city)
\nhis family (hotel) in words
\nlobby to stand the name
\nwas<\/p>\n

and he (San Antonio) it is
\nbeside me in a cross of spotless
\nwhite, I understand him
\nreceived and then themselves with
\nwait<\/p>\n

you from a (place like a) we are
\nbells just won’t stop ringing! across
\nfrom a gold mine, I deal
\n(in California) would you
\nnow what<\/p>\n

Holly Day<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Boots XIV Boots dragged the small body over the pile of blades. He swung the little boy high into the air, high above the bodies of his dead parents. Someday, a woman will trace the long white scars on your back and ask where they came from. Boots kicked the boy. If your child is … <\/p>\n

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