She puts the pillow over his face and prays
it’ll be as easy as the shows she’s seen on TV.
He pulls it away, laughs and tells her he still has to go
she is no match for him tonight. The moon
lights up the fields outside, all around the house, and she
and this house are a plague ship on a dead sea
there is no reason for anyone to stay here, even if only
to ride it out until the next town.

Alone, she imagines he’s kissed her goodbye, on the cheek
soft as a little girl’s whisper, an echo of sunset.
When she brings him the baby, he won’t ask
about the random things he’s left behind at her house
the other men’s shoes in her closet.
When she comes to his house
swollen with starlight,
he won’t be able to slip out the door as if
she is nothing but air.

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). Read other articles by Holly.