By Holly Day

I used to be able to get lost in the woods
entirely dependent on my parents to find me
and lead me back home—a back seat passenger
even on my own two feet. As I grew older
I taught myself to look for landmarks, how to make
mental notes of twists in a path, how to memorize
buildings and street names.

Because of this, I can’t get lost in the woods anymore
can’t lose myself completely in a canopy of green
and trees, always have the next landmark catalogued in my head
to unfold, in order, when I need to get out.
No one will come to get me, tell me
“It’s time to go home now--take my hand.” I’m the one in charge now
and I hate it.

Holly Day’s poetry has recently appeared in Analog SF, Cardinal Sins, and New Plains Review, and her published books include Music Theory for Dummies and Music Composition for Dummies. She currently teaches classes at The Loft Literary Center in Minnesota, Hugo House in Washington, and The Muse Writers Center in Virginia.