The Funeral
Holly Day
I think about them dying and wonder
how I can be expected
to hand their bodies over to strangers
to be buried in a grave
far from home, far from me
when all I really want is to be allowed to
carry bits of them with me
for the rest of my own life
the fingerbones of children in my pocket
or on a string around my neck,
twin rosaries of vertebra wrapped loose
around my wrists
so I can raise my hands
to my lips, in prayer, to speak
to a family
I will never let go
The River Otter
Holly Day
The otter sleeps in the river, wrapped
in duckweed and watercress, tiny paws folded
over its chest. I resign myself to stretching out
in the sun-warmed shallows, hands spread out in the water
determined to catch vestiges of the river otter’s dreams.
In fairy tales, this would be the time when the river otter
would wake and swim out to me to speak
of wishes and promises and secret treasures and marriage
emerge a prince from the water, dripping jewels and starlight
instead, tiny, unbidden ripples
spread across the water from where I lay
to where the otter sleeps, don’t, won’t stop
until the animal wakes and swims away.
