Ruminations on a Sunday Morning

by Holly Day


You ask me what I want to write about, and I try to say
joy. I don’t know how to write about joy, how to talk about joy,
describe how it feels to see the sun breaking over the horizon
in a glorious cliché of colors
birds chirping in a ridiculously Disneylike accompaniment
the labored sound of the school bus bumping down the road
as the last part of my head not destroyed by cynicism
tingles with bliss. This is what I’d like to write about:
The way my heart hammers when I see your bare leg poke out of the mess of blankets
piled haphazardly on our bed, the spots and freckles I’ve memorized on your back
the way you make everything around you smell warm and lovely. I don’t know

how to write about these things. Instead, I think of all of the deep things
I should write about: politics, war, or even
the flowers opening out in the garden, but  not just what they look like.
Something really important.


Holly Day’s poetry has recently appeared in The Cape Rock, New Ohio Review, and Gargoyle. Her newest poetry collections are A Perfect Day for Semaphore (Finishing Line Press),  In This Place, She Is Her Own (Vegetarian Alcoholic Press), A Wall to Protect Your Eyes (Pski’s Porch Publishing), I’m in a Place Where Reason Went Missing (Main Street Rag Publishing Co.), and The Yellow Dot of a Daisy (Alien Buddha Press).