Sunday Morning Sweats Holly Day Poetry

local_library Sunday Morning Sweats

by Holly Day

Published in Issue No. 4 ~ July, 1996

You were the life of every party
always up-to-date on every new joke.
We’d toast your manic goofy wit
silently, hypos upraised
before sending silver mosquitoes
painfully home.

I was the only one who ever heard you crying
late at night, in the bathroom,
before blindly stumbling off to bed
trying not to bleed on the carpet. You named
each miscarriage after a different Biblical martyr,
crossing out that character in the old family Bible
so you wouldn’t pick the same name twice.

You were the life of every party–
heroine made you one popular skeleton.
I’d sit as close to you as possible, happy
having a sister who wasn’t too cool
to hang out with a little kid.

I was the only one
who tried to help you, holding your bone-cold hand
tightly, watching bastard fetus number five
slip out and bless the white porcelain
crimson. I don’t remember what you named it.

You were the life of every party.
Your eulogy was comprised of
over half-an-hour
of your stupidest

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Holly Day lives in Daytona Beach, Florida, with three cats, a man, and a new baby (Wolfegang Lauffer Day, b. Dec 20, 1995). Her poetry and fiction have appeared in over 600 publications internationally, most recently in Literatia Macabre, Speer Presents, and Old Crow.