don't die press

Just Making Conversation

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New poem by Holly Day

It’s strange how we all have so many of the same parts inside of us.
We have lungs and a heart just like a squirrel’s, a digestive system that looks
indistinguishable from a pig’s. If you were to gut a pig and a man next to one another
in the morning, you wouldn’t be able to tell which pool of rusty-red dried blood
came from which creature. If you slit a goat or a dog or a rabbit from neck to navel
all of the organs fall out in the same sort of bundle, just a different-sized bundle.
I don’t know what I’m telling you this for, but you decided
that the empty seat next to me was some sort of invitation to conversation.
If you don’t want to talk about the things I like talking about, perhaps
you should find another drinking companion.
I could tell you something about the steer that lost his hide
to make these leather pants I’m wearing, tell you all about the things
that lived in the trees cut down
to make this here bar we’re drinking at,
but I can tell you’re the type of guy who likes simpler stories than these.


by , on

New poem by Holly Day

The dust finally settles, and it’s safe to come out.
Doors of fallout shelters creak open,
exhale recycled air and the smell
of confinement. The first step
cautiously out into the open.

Huddled masses stretch themselves into the halls
of new palaces: abandoned, themed McDonald’s
massive stock exchange buildings bearing reliefs of
extinct flowers and grains
an ice skating rink, big enough
for children and horses.

Self-proclaimed kings and queens
spontaneously create new religions
and traditions, declare them in a competition of cacophony
through broken skyscraper windows
and flimsy observation decks
littered with the bodies of sparrows and pigeons.