When you unearth a corpse and it’s still fresh, and you see it writhing
with maggots and larvae and nymphs moments from exploding into flies
remember: this is their home, and you’re as much a disturbance to them
as they are to you. Imagine the revulsion of a salesman stepping into your home
unexpectedly, on a day you decided, fuck it, I’m not picking up dishes
or doing laundry, or vacuuming or cleaning up after anyone but myself today.
That salesman would probably wear the same expression on their face
as you are wearing now, spade in hand, peering into the dark of fresh earth
pots of peonies and roses waiting to be dropped in, completely forgotten
the unexpected flash of white knobbed fingers, a deflated eyelid,
all those unanswered phone calls explained.
— HOLLY DAY
Holly Day’s writing has recently appeared in Analog SF, Talking River, and New Plains Review, and her published books include Music Theory for Dummies and Music Composition for Dummies. She lives in Minneapolis and currently teaches classes at The Loft Literary Center in Minnesota, Hugo House in Washington, and the Indiana Writers Center.