A Collection of Poems by Holly Conant

Goodnight Moon You must have seen me too Moon, little girl lost, as you watched my mother wax and wane into madness, saw every night of it. Was there anyone else, that night? Or was it just my mother and you, Moon. Did you kiss her? Take her with you, back, under the horizon? Suicide, we thought, but there was no note; she would’ve left a note. The coroners said death by misadventure, found nothing remarkable when they cut that crescent into her, just moondust. I look to you, Moon, the same moon my mother looked at, once.

Two Interludes in Six Years I have cried three times. When I found out: tears of stinging vodka poured out, burnt my throat, distilled neat wails. Knees dropped down; the five-mile-ash of your roll-ups finally giving in. Paramedics carried me by my elbows, put me in the back of your ambulance. Not at the funeral. The second time, not long after. The house was tidy and silent: My mouth gave way to a wolf that ripped through the empty sky, the drift of your crossing. My eyes sung the lullaby I gave you as you rotted, tears conducted to the patter of your walking stick. I wished for the same rainbow then. And never again. Freddie

You are dead.

I know because I picked you up

and you didn’t move,

I felt you

and you were stiff.

But if I concentrate hard enough,

I’m sure I can see you breathing.

But you are dead.

I know because you didn’t run up

at feeding time;

you stayed very still.

You stayed, very still.

But maybe you’re just playing dead?

This is the best you’ve ever played it.

Logic tells me you must be dead,

because you are not moving

and you are very stiff and very still.

But maybe if i wrap you up in this blanket,

you will get warm again?

It’s my job to look after you,

so I need to look after you.

But you won’t eat or drink,

And I’ve put you in a box.

Maybe as soon as I fall asleep,

You will reanimate.


Run to the nearest field.

Harvey You have left your mark on the wall. The pattern will always be incomplete, wallpaper ripped off with teeth. The dust pans have moved since morning duties have changed. The shit cupboard has less shit in it. The lounge looks bigger without your bed swallowing the empty space. Vacuuming is not an everyday task anymore. The bills are down, so I can save for a holiday I wouldn’t have been able to take. Things remain tidy. The house smells fresher. Silence.

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