That Sort of Day
by Theodora Goss
Today is the sort of day when everything breaks:
already, the dawn has broken, and the telephone,
and words don’t mean what they used to anymore,
and my heart is breaking, and waves continue to break
in foaming crests on the slick, moss-covered rocks.
Today is the sort of day on which we shatter
like glass, and all the pieces of us scatter
on the wind, when everything we had is lost
or left behind: the car keys, the grocery list,
the sensible mind. It is the sort of day
when I have dropped all the dishes on the floor.
There is nothing to do with a day like this but dedicate
it to grief and loss, to say let us walk on the shore,
where the sea crashes and slowly the land wears away,
and the moon rises, perfectly indifferent to us,
not caring at all whether we come or go,
or if we go, where it is we have gone.
(The image is by Gesso Yoshimoto.)