On the third day, I wrote to you about the sky, its elastic way of stretching so ocean-wide that the only way to name it was to compare it to Montana’s. Lately, the sky is a ceiling I wake to: broad & blank & stubborn, stiff at the edges like a fever cloth wrung out & gone cold in the night, damp with the wicking of latent ache. But tonight I was walking home along the coastline & caught the huge moon in my throat. There’s a man somewhere on the planet who has been to that moon, who has stepped out of that sky, & will never sleep the same because of it. Will always be sad or feel small, or wonder how it is a person can be a person, if being a person is worrying about things; whose eyes cannot see what things are, but only the slightness of them. I think of writing to you in this way—welcoming the adventure of it— & of being wrecked proper, of being ruined.
From Last Psalm at Sea Level (Barrow Street, 2014). Copyright © 2014 by Meg Day. Used with the permission of the author.