« Holly Day » Albatrees my mother keeps bringing me houseplants, even though she knows I’ll just kill them either my accident, or blatant neglect, or just plain frustration at being made to care for something so absolutely dependent on me pots of flowers and vines and things with spikes all wither and die within weeks of coming under my care I forget to water. I water too much. I know nothing about sunlight or shade or dry heat. the guilt of it all is the worst part of it, seeing the progression of death: wilted leaves, crumpled blossoms these poor little souls entrusted to me “maybe this one will live,” says my mother bringing in the new victims and whisking away corpses “I’ve never had much luck with begonias,” she confides “So let’s try a spider plant, some daisies, instead.” A Good Wife Apparently naïve, I think my sex life Is good, even through I have never had sex in an elevator Or participate din an orgy. I like the way my husband looks, even though He has no tattoos, piercings, or brands. Apparently naïve, I think my life’s been Pretty full, even though I don’t belong To any Mile High Club, and I’ve never Had sex with a woman. I like the way my husband looks, especially now That my daughter has his eyes. These things seem foreign and alien To me, like something I’d do If I lost my mind, or was told I was going to die. Holly Day’s newest books, Music Theory for Dummies and Shakira will be in stores mid-2007. Her poetry, fiction, and nonfiction have most recently appeared in January, Philadelphia Poets, and California Quarterly. She currently works as a reporter and a writing instructor in Minneapolis, Minnesota, and lives with her two children and husband.