the phone call comes, the morning’s skin is pierced,
the holiday ruined before it even begins. Suddenly
the months of the years rearrange themselves. Suddenly
routine surrenders and substitutes must be found.
Suddenly you clutch at straws so hard you make each
one another kind of breaking. Suddenly the surf pounds
in your ear and nothing you say or do can console the one
who’s come in, tired from swimming, from walking. Suddenly
it’s evening, filled with the wings of moths that converge
in rooms where we’ve covered the furniture with drop cloths.
Suddenly the night unreels and the halls lead us round
and round these rooms that we thought were locked
but which give at the push of a fingertip. Suddenly a bird
calls out and a mirror drops from its frame. Suddenly
a shadow melts in the shape of a cage and the wall
is lit as if from within. Suddenly it’s raining.
And just like that, suddenly it isn’t.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.