In the Park
The bonsai trees pose behind the glass
like little girls wearing too much makeup
or old women dressed like children.
Their leaves and spring blossoms
are too large for their branches, disproportionate
their slim trunks gouged and twisted
with memories of inflicted droughts, near-fatal cuts.
The man in charge of the display whispers to the trees
as he works them over with the shears, tells them they’re pretty
as he keeps them from growing up. Roots, thick and sinuous,
quietly search for a way out beneath the display
of dry moss and gravel, tap against the glass at night
tell stories so slow they take decades to end.
Inherent
some babies just know that they’re born on thin ice
well-behaved children
of rape and desertion, as if they know how deep
a hole they have to climb out of just
to
stay. some babies just know
that they’re born on thin ice, that they’re always
a hair’s breadth from being
abandoned, that they live in
the shadows of state care, foster homes, or
a paper bag dumped by the side of the road.
some babies just know.
Holly Day was recently published in Analog SF, Cardinal Sins, and New Plains Review, and her 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.
Sparks of Calliope 