Holly Holt

Somewhere, My Youth Lies Rotting

When I think about

the roads that lead home,

I know exactly where they’ll lead:

to a house long crumpled

with a makeshift pet cemetery

placed on a barb-wire hill

where tulips shall never grow,

and an October orange cat

lies rotting along with my youth.

Like a hypodermic needle to the heart,

my mind turns to Griffin

and a black, pot-bellied puppy

writhing and whining and wanting

so desperately to go home

that the noises he made

sounded so human,

while the room around him

filled with laughter

at how bad he smelled,

and at his frail attempts to communicate

in words that we could understand.

“I wanna go home,” he whimpered.

Not long after that, the puppy died.

I can’t remember how he smelled.

I remember only his cry,

and that I was part of the laughter,

which seems so sinister now,

as it wakes me during a summer nap.

I can’t help but wonder

if people laugh at me

for the same reason.

Since August of 2013, H. Holt has been published by various magazines and blogs. She has recently been accepted by Negative Capability Press, who will be including her in their Anthology of Georgia Poetry in 2015. She lives in the luscious mountains of North Georgia, where she spends her time helping students achieve their dreams of higher education.