Rehabilitation
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?
Redoubt
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 