when I die, no one
will be able to find me. I’ll be
slumped at my desk
in the corner of the basement
hidden by mountains of loose paper
balls of yarn
yards of unworked embroidery canvas
mountains of rumpled afghans.
even the smell of my corpse rotting
will go undetected for days
mixing in with the spice of
smashed jars of canned tomatoes and pickles
the full catbox
the open bag of peppery beef jerky on the desk
eventually, someone will come
to close my office door
seal the seam shut with duct tape and drywall spackle
hang a Christmas tree-shaped deodorizer from the door knob
paint over the doorway and pretend
I never existed.
Copyright 2009
Author's Bio: Holly Day lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota, with her two children, husband, and cat. Her newest nonfiction books are Music Theory for Dummies, Music Composition for Dummies, and Walking Twin Cities. Her poetry and fiction have most recently appeared in Penny Blood Review, Pearl, and Tar Wolf Review.
