Poetry by Claire Connolly

                ​Rob LeBer CC



Stray Dog Day

A lazy day stretches itself on the porch 

in the morning sun like a stray dog, full and content 
on the evening’s trash. I tremble in fear and lust 

at the soft curve of such days: the restless wandering 
of the previous night, the hunger for what is necessary, 

the silent shrinking of all that is not. Anxiety is a foreigner, 
a binge drinker buying the land and not speaking the language. 

But here it is, my only friend, my neighbor, 
playing music too loudly, shouting across the street, asking

What are you doing today! 
And in the soft folds of silence, simplicity, 
it turns my sinew to wool.

On days like this, I see there is nothing to capitalize on 
and my insides start knitting. I itch everywhere. 

I was told that all of the worth in the world, including my 
own, and anything perfect, is found in collecting:

growing larger, swollen, swallowing the coin 
from every minute that passes. The stray dog day 

yawns. There is nothing here to take. I could gag it for garbage. 
Ask the neighbor to invest. 

There is a vulture in the upper lefthand corner of the horizon 
that does not flap its wings. It seems suspended in midair by
 
a string, held by a lazy puppeteer of Sky. Effortless. 
I scratch my palms, bitten by insects. 

Nothing inside is satisfied, the skin is too thick, 
the venom too deep. ​

Claire Connolly (they/them) is a genderfluid lesbian poet from the western United States. A former touring slam poet, they've found their way to the page in Pile Press and Forseti Publishing tackling topics like invisible illness, queerness, and love. Their spiritual home is along the Wild Atlantic Way. You can find them on Instagram @itshiptobeclaire

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