What Remains of the Day
by Holly Day



I don’t want to be here, curled in ice and snow, dried out
for future generations to find, a horrifying discovery
by some soul-seeking hiker, a tragic story to play out
in museums for wide-eyed children. I don’t want

to be found here, like this, a mouse in a clump
of dried mud and stiff grass, huddled in a concrete
cistern, pressed against a real door in a false wall
waiting out a storm that won’t end in time, eyes closed tight

against a maelstrom of glittering sparks just outside
the ghastly hue of burning buildings and rolling fog
the thunder of gunpowder exploding in showers of metal
and clay, sharp bits of glass and fire.






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