Dalton Day is the author of Spooky Action at a Distance (Spork Press) & Exit, Pursued (Plays Inverse). His poems have been featured in / by The Threepenny Review, The Art Institute of Chicago, & Invisibilia. He lives in Atlanta, & can be found at tinyghosthands.com!
by Dalton Day
I should have bought the lounge chair in the shape of a giant, leopard-print high heel shoe, but my cowardice is well-documented.
It, my cowardice, is a squint in the summer sun, which, unrelated, is so hot that I've taught myself how to lick my own eyeballs, like a genderless lizard.
My blue tail disappears as a defense.
My blue index disappears as a defense.
Grief, pages [ ] to [ ].
Followed by growth, by chance.
When a person looks at another's face, hardly ever do they linger on the eyes, instead choosing the divots on a forehead or cheek, a comfortable place to hide, folded inward, waiting for what passes by overhead.
I'm no exception.
In that, I have no proof.
Just one hunch after another.
If we make it out of here, I promise you—I promise you something that should have come before, something great.
OF SENTIMENTAL VALUE
Pulling a piece of skin off the back of my heel leads me to believe I should make a wish, but it’s just another example of suffering for fashion.
Another faux-Italian summer, complete with a longing to say things like just one more night.
Am I misunderstood or am I making myself misunderstood?
I just want my pop culture references to be well received.
Get in loser, we’re going to unpack some, but not all, of our emotional neuroses.
Blame it on the principle of selection.
Perpetual something or other.
How we ended up here, & not elsewhere, in the company of medium-to-large sized animals—oh, it must be an incredible, hectic tale.
One worth hoarding, like a pearl that, even at first glance, is untrue.