4 Poems by Adam Day


My aunt shaves
in her underwear

while she talks
to her hair – like

plant sentience:
“If you leave

someone, you’ve
got to do it

for a real
piece of ass.”

The whole thing
is ridiculous:

it’s like being
inside a bird;

where do you
live when

you’re sick?


Night mountain
snow is unlike
them living
inside his head:

There is one less
table setting.
He had nothing

to fear, though
he went in fear –
there was nothing

they could do
to him, or
very little.

Monkey Mind

Shotgun my brain
and tendons into words

onto the wall. The trigger-digit
sings though

it doesn’t feel
its best. It should be

ashamed; people will
be mad – them do moral

history. But screw Jack
and sister and Santa

and sir! This island feels
less and more about less. But

if I escape to Montana,
Slovenia? All did or are doing:

thrive, nervous hurts – then
the appointment – forty years long

enough in a taxi
going home? One day

I will rope with my own
hands or dive into schist –

forget footnotes
and news and truth. Take

a word for it. My mind
is fine. The jerk.

To Remain

Swift tired, soft
they leave their eyes

on the sun,
leaves whitening

before rain
in the acacia cold.

Clouds hang
like wood

in barbed wire.
The easy sky

gets laid, flashing
the sea heavy

on the hill.

ADAM DAY is the author of Left-Handed Wolf (LSU Press, 2020), and of Model of a City in Civil War (Sarabande Books), and the recipient of a Poetry Society of America Chapbook Fellowship for Badger, Apocrypha, and of a PEN Award. He is the editor of the forthcoming anthology, Divine Orphans of the Poetic Project, from 1913 Press, and his work has appeared in the APR, Boston Review, Denver Quarterly, Volt, Kenyon Review, Iowa Review, and elsewhere.

© Maximus Magazine 2022

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