Sunday by Holly Day

Sunday by Holly Day

It’s Sunday morning and the mice are going to church.

I can hear them rushing through the rafters over my head

to meet at some undisclosed central spot in my house. 

Because I don’t try to find and destroy their church, 

and I let them worship in peace

I hope their religion isn’t based on getting rid of me. 

It’s Sunday afternoon and the mice are coming home from church,

and their pace overhead seems slower, more thoughtful, this time

as though they have weighty thoughts to reflect on

or perhaps gratitude is guiding their steps now, 

and they’re enjoying coming back with their families

perhaps thinking of the future, making some great plans

that hopefully won’t affect me. 

Author Bio: Holly Day ( has been a writing instructor at the Loft Literary Center in Minneapolis since 2000. Her poetry has recently appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction, Grain, and Harvard Review, and her newest full-length poetry collections are Into the Cracks (Golden Antelope Press), Cross Referencing a Book of Summer (Silver Bow Publishing), The Tooth is the Largest Organ in the Human Body (Anaphora Literary Press), and Book of Beasts (Weasel Press).

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