When he reaches for me, in the dark, I pretend
my body has turned into flower-speckled peat
covered in sticky sundews clasping for gnats and flies
something suitable to briefly sink into
something invisible and soft and undemanding.
He tells me later how boring I am in the middle of the night
how lacking in spontaneity our lovemaking has become
I make a noise like a bird and flutter about the room
tell him not to expect great things from me when I’m asleep
he should not expect anything from me when I’m asleep.
About:
Holly Day’s poetry has recently appeared in Analog SF, Cardinal Sins, and New Plains Review, and her published 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.
