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Issue 4.2

Summer 2024

Holly Day

Feet Skipping up the Stairs

I am withering

under the burden of memory,

distract myself by trying to maintain

my fuckable parts.


I have forgiven the tiny guests

that left my body a disaster

but still send flowers

on my birthday, sometimes call.


Sometimes, when I’m sad,

I can feel their tiny hands on my skin

those ghost fingers that clutched at me

for more, always more

specters I miss more

than I can stand to admit.

Holly Day’s poetry has recently appeared in Analog SF, Cardinal Sins, 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 Muse Writers Center in Virginia.

Holly's Book Recommendation

Jim Harrison: The Essential Poems


Just outside my window, hundreds of brown and white sparrows are covering my back yard. They blend in so well with the curled brown leaves and dried-out plants that the only way I can tell they’re there is when one of them encroaches on the other’s foraging space, resulting in an explosion of tiny wings and the occasional puff of loose feathers. Every fall, this congregation of birds both excites and depresses me—excites me because it’s simply glorious to see so much wildlife, even if it is just sparrows, right outside my window, yet depressing because they only gather like this right before winter.

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